A quiet island floating sound,
so very high, above the ground,
and there amongst the dark green leaves,
a child lays, and there he grieves.

The island of angels was evermore young,
and the life and the light were of legend, sung,
and the people were always merry and loud,
living so well, on The Island Cloud.

The boy in the story was once of their kind,
naught a worry in sight, they were all blind,
to the storm of anger that humans can make,
a fury, from which all our people do ache.

The lust and the hate all burned at their minds,
and died did many, of all kinds,
and their story will always be sung aloud,
about, in the sky, The Island Cloud.

So the boy, we said, he grieved his loss,
as did the few others who had survived the cross,
and they would always mourn aloud,
about their lost home, their Island Cloud.