I am but the whisper of a cloud, shaped by the hands of wind.
As I tumble through the sky, solitude clings to my translucent form.
The ground, that silent witness, stretches endlessly below.
Its draw is an echoing call, mysterious and unfathomable.
Each collision with the earth ripples through the cosmos,
weaving stories of forgotten realms and lost voices.
In the embrace of the soil, I ponder existence itself:
Does purpose find me in this journey, or is the journey itself the answer?