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Poem - Bad weather

It’s a bad weather. A white cloth dipped in black paint. The pigeon starts growing tiger stripes. A featherless peacock brings no joy. It’s bad weather. Oh, it’s bad weather.  The blood goes boiling, still I froze. My heart is sort of a furnace now.  The tiny bubbles break aloud, your head hears no voice. The nights went long as eyes count the hours. It’s bad weather, baby bad weather, just a bad weather. haritux.in