When the Cloud Spoke to Me: A Ride, a Poem, and a Thought

Today, while returning from college, I sat near the window seat on the bus. The sun was soft, and the breeze was kind. As the bus moved through the quiet roads, I saw something that completely pulled me in clouds gently drifting over the distant mountains. They were slow, graceful, and calm. For a moment, I forgot everything.

It instantly reminded me of Percy Bysshe Shelley’s poem “The Cloud”. In that poem, the cloud speaks of its own endless cycle how it forms, travels, brings rain, hides the sun, and returns again. Shelley doesn’t just describe a weather pattern he gives the cloud a voice, a soul, and a story.

As I watched the clouds floating freely above the hills, I couldn’t help but feel jealous of the people living near such beauty every day. But more than that, I felt connected to the cloud. Like the cloud, nothing in my life feels permanent. I am also just moving from one place to another, one thought to another, never still, never certain.

Yet Shelley’s poem gave me a strange kind of peace. The cloud accepts change, it embraces motion. It is never still, yet always itself. Maybe I, too, can learn to live like that.

Sometimes, poems are not just to read they are to be felt, seen, and lived. Today, Shelley’s “The Cloud” wasn’t just a classroom text. It became real outside the window of a moving bus, above a mountain, inside a drifting heart.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Let Me Sleep, Not to Dream....

     Some nights, I don’t want answers I just want silence. Not the kind filled with buzzing thoughts, but the deep, weightless stillness that John Keats writes about in “To Sleep.” His lines feel less like poetry and more like a whisper to the weary .      Keats doesn’t glorify sleep as a dreamy escape filled with fantasies. Instead, he sees it as a quiet refuge from the noise of life. I remember one night, after back-to-back classes and an unexpected family argument, I sat by my window, emotionally exhausted. No words, no energy just the weight of being awake. That night, I opened Keats. His line, “Seal the hushed casket of my soul,” made me close my eyes. For once, I wasn’t trying to sleep. I was inviting it in like an old friend.      I’ve often found that poetry meets us where no one else can . Keats understood that some days feel too loud, too real. And what we need isn’t escape, but a pause a gentle covering of all that aches. His...
Read more

From Questions to Acceptance: The Quiet Strength Within

Today, I began writing my blog not with clarity, but with a curious uncertainty. I didn’t know where to start or what to write. Once, I was filled with questions. I constantly asked: How? Where? When? Why? What? These questions shaped my journey, my identity, my hunger to understand the world. But something changed. I’ve stopped asking. I’ve begun accepting. Life has slowly revealed its quiet wisdom to me not in answers, but in acceptance. I no longer seek explanations for everything around me. I no longer expect people to explain themselves, prove themselves, or live up to my vision of who they should be. Why should they? Everyone is walking their own path. It’s not my responsibility to evaluate their pace, their truth, or their struggle. I’ve learned not to expect, not to demand, not to act out of pressure or illusion. Instead, I’ve chosen to receive what life brings openly, peacefully. “I don’t expect, so I don’t act. I just accept.” That is my mantra now. I’ve found that ac...
Read more

When Hope Sings Softly Within !!!

     There are times in life when everything outside falls silent, dreams are delayed, plans fall apart, and people we trust walk away. Yet, even in such silence, I’ve felt something quietly fluttering within me a small, unwavering voice that says, “Move forward.” Emily Dickinson’s poem “Hope is the Thing with Feathers” captures that feeling so perfectly. She compares hope to a bird that perches in our soul, singing wordlessly through the fiercest storms.      What struck me most is how Dickinson says this bird “never stops at all.” That line stayed with me. In my own life, when I felt lost after rejections, personal losses, or simply long nights filled with doubt, I didn’t always have someone to lean on. But this soft inner song remained. It never asked for anything in return. Just like Dickinson’s bird, hope never demanded food, praise, or reward. It just kept singing.      I’ve learned that true hope doesn’t come from external success o...
Read more