The Fog

A great fog of smoke has arisen in the north,
cruel eyes of cruel people.
The wind blows from the east with fierce hatred,
a smile does not conceal the grief.
The dust swirls with brown and red,
across the morbid sunset in the west.
Why should this dog howl and bare teeth at me?
How much aversive agony does it see through my soul?
The swollen carrion of a giant camel,
lies in the midst of the path of the torrent.
The path is vast and rough and harsh,
a small camel, still alive, wavers at its southern edge.
Hesitant, trembling before the question:
whether it is safe to cross to the other side.
What is it that makes the heart leap for its survival?
Is it more courage, or is it more fear?


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