Storm last night

That purple spark in sky
Like a fountain of strikes
In pale grey cloudy sky
The clouds pour pain
Gently first, gaining thrust.
As passion spins
Looms of different timelines
Waltzing all around.
A cloud bursts gold
Silently, marking it's presence.
The feet waltz
Churning in the night's essence.
Gloomy with a fresh spirit.
Lonely, with a hope inside.
Till storm bursts open
Those hidden sores and wounds
And there the trees uproot
The wind howling
Yet a cookoo hoots
While hiding her feeble self
Behind window panes
From the mighty storm
Numbing her very voice
Carrying the echo
Of peacocks singing in distance
Deep in the wild.
The cookoo tries to focus
Upon the warmth offered behind
Those window panes.
The room with air conditioned
Clean and calm.
Where imbittered feelings
Are presently sweet.
And the bearers laughat the irony
Of storm outside
With peace inside the walls.
Cookoo sees otherwise
Most of the times.
How else would she sing
Her eternal grief, her pain.
Come morning.
The storm got tired.
Trees with ego lie lifeless.
Birds once again fly at ease.
Peacocks sing still
Sky beams it's bright sun
As in it blue fills.
Watch the goosebumps
On the soft round head
Of those tiny tiny birds.
Cookoo sings.
Mocking at the woman
So attached with mundaneness
Watering the washed plants
And the old lady taking care
Of young saplings.
She has seen it all
The storm, the peace;
The cold connections, the heat.
She sings still.
The feet waltz still.