Ink spilled on sky

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The sky is a big smoker
every other they he smokes the clouds
And I watch the silhouettes
of the stories that are
wandering in the massive blue
Sometimes, these stories
sneak into earth as rain
But all we hear is music
of the stones and the droplets.
Maybe, the sky is not a smoker
But a writer with blue ink
spilled on him.

P. S.
Every song has got a story concealed in it.

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