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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.
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