Despite cuckoo in tree no clouds form
Nimbus or stratus , cirrus or whatever.
There are clouds over the farmer faces.
Now they squeeze their eyes into sky.
The sky is as cracked as cotton’s land.
Cottons will soon commit their deaths
By electric fans, not finding the trees.
And a cloud cuckoo land is complete
With dry peacock piercing a grey sky
And India map has wet tail in the sea.
Down there are masses of a cumulus
With no rail tickets to reach a cotton.