Agli amici della Tenda Rossa

Clouds,
They move around.
Sometimes to the west
Mostly to the east,
Changing shape.
Then, suddenly, they fall away.
They don’t care.

Tents,
built by men.
Most are light, some are special.
Changing shape.
Once, they fall away.
They don’t care.

People,
all around the world
Moving like clouds.
Once they come together to a red tent.
Different shapes.
Someday people leave.
I care