Clouds

Despite cuckoo in tree no clouds form
Nimbus , stratus or cirrus or whatever.
These are clouds over farmer’s faces.
Now they squeeze their faces into sky.
The sky is as cracked as cotton’s land.
Cottons will soon commit mass suicide
By the electric fan, not finding trees.

And a cloud cuckoo land is complete
With dry peacock piercing a grey sky
And Indiamap has wet tail in the sea.
Down there are masses of a cumulus
With no rail tickets to reach a cotton.
They fizzle down as promises unmet.

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