The fog feels arrogant.

The fog feels triumphant,

for it has killed the last

glimpse of our city.

 

It is singing, ‘All the faces

are distorted now.

All the voices

are blurred by broken sentences.’

 

The fog feels arrogant.

The fog feels triumphant,

for it has killed the last

colour of our city.

 

It is singing, ‘All the children

have white beards now.

All the tears are masked

by false giggles.’

 

Can you hear my blurred voice?

Can you see me in my blue coat?

 

The fog is sneaking into it.

The fog is turning me into

another colourless shadow

of our city.

 

What do I need now?

What do we need now?

 

A warm hand,

a new constant colour,

and a trusting innocence

for the children who

have white beards now.

© 2019 harana poetry

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