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The Clouds' Courante MAG
The daylight breaks; we rouse and wake,
Then gracefully our places take.
With clothes of pink and golden hue,
We wait to hear the music’s cue.
We swirl and twirl, the light grows dim,
Our garb is somber, gray, and grim,
We circle in a spinning form,
And flashing, crashing, end the morn.
And then we waltz. Our gowns are pale.
There is no gust, no bite, no gale,
But gentle winds propel our tread
Until the rays of day have fled.
We’re wispy in our weakened state,
With crystal dress and languid gait;
Our step is light, but weak and slow.
The wind is frail and hardly blows.
Then with a final tranquil trill,
The music stops, we all fall still.
Sweat drips from our exhausted frames
Onto the land the humans claim.
And then it all begins once more:
We’re back upon our dancing floor,
Unseen to many eyes below.
We spin to make the shine or snow.