Clouds

Those pure white clouds,

They are cushioning cotton,

To the bleeding evening sky,

They are spread in unicorns,

Jets, horses, cricketers;

They hide the stars-

The wounds to see 

Later in the night.

When the moon-the lotion

Comes to heal them all,

The cotton peels off. 

Then again at daybreak

When we all are asleep,

As the sky bleeds red-

The cotton is spread again.