Under the stealth of night
Sky had hoarded
Grey cotton-candy clouds
Wanting to weave
Silver tapestries of rain
With those whimsy fluffs;
A russet Sun arrived
Ruffling those mounds
Setting aflame
The slate-toned sky;
Black smoke billowing
Clouds turn to cinders,
Wispy as wicks,
And, east slowly burns!
Ashok Krishna
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