Half past ten, on a Sunday night
Puttu looked out of his bedroom window.
Spotless, like his clean slate, was the sky.
To call Monday a holiday there wasn’t a single sign.
Off he slipped into sleep; on his secret mission.
Now in his dreamland he got busy in an instant.
Kneading, punching and beating, he swiftly rolled
The pristine white flour into a big ball of ashen dough.
Sprinkled some water and iced it with a silver lining.
He pushed some buttons and let it puff in an oven.
The alarm went off and he rubbed his eyes twice.
Now he woke up in his bed with a gigantic, dark cloud in sight;