The Lunatic’s recipe for cooking clouds

At the end of all dusty aisles,

beneath rooftops that rattle

under cursory monsoon raindrops

behind curtains, by window-panes,

there’s a holy bubble, its space reserved

for all misfits and lunatics in disguise.

From their windows,

curious,

they gaze inside the dust.

the dust never settles,

neither does the scrutiny.

Sometimes it even takes forever.

But these loons listen to the wind

from inside their small-big bubble

that they wrap themselves with-

in mist at morning, at noons scorching.

they observe the colors of air

and as it howls and growls,

they chase all the clouds away.

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