I have this friend of mine,
brilliantly skilled in performing
things that can annoy me
to the utmost. I am amazed at
my luck to have this fellow.
One fine day, he visited my place
in evening when I was on terrace
bidding good bye to setting sun.
Hours of dusk pour a calmness weird
into my heart. Only time I feel rest.
His eyes were swinging along with the
clouds stuck in sky to use it as playground.
Nivedita, write me a poem on clouds
their white color, their ice cream shape,
their cold vibrance.
I walked towards my table to get my pen.
As soon as I begun and only a few words
born on paper. Nivedita, this isn't right.
Clouds aren't white. See properly, they are
orange. Without any shape. Floating.
I erased my words, replaced white by orange,
ice cream by nothing. Flic
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