I could think of nowhere better to lay my head but on the clouds. 

It's soft and malleable presence resonating dreams of mid summers in Brazil. 

At sunset the clouds bore fleeting resemblance to Chinese lanterns, "Sun Lit Pillows".

I could stare at the clouds for hours

It took the shape of memories ;

My first embrace of family

How I fitted so perfectly in the valley of his palm 

Or that of a sibling

How we were the same but yet different

 So we go on to accept the terms:

Life is enveloped in change,

There is beauty in change.

Then what is beauty ?

It's the sculptor that uses time as its chisel

But it's not with end.

It is of a single existence

But takes on many forms.

It is cosmetic, a reality bathed in "magical realism"

Then how could you find beauty which changes perception on sight.

Or hides behinds a mask unless it finds you ?

Our perception of reality is the only reality we hold up in highest regard.

Hence only in its actions β€œIt shall rise with the sun from the East like clockwork" 

And In the silent memories of our clouded thoughts it shall crown you

Like fruits that cherish their roots.