My aim not to be seen has been cut out for me,
as I soar past, above your home, all I can see
is dark, looming clouds stretching far and wide
towards oblivion; to the end of my sight –
occasionally lit up by bluish flares of light
as thunder has enveloped the place where you might
hide from me who hover under blue skies, free,
between the thundering menace beneath me
and the ethereal blue where no clouds,
save some feathers,
will venture to disturb the tranquil weathers –
I went here to see you without myself being seen,
but neither can see either, and it seems my aim has been
a mere illusion, worse, perhaps a dream