You can’t see anyone through thick and thin
when the fog sets in.
Tonight I feel that there’s a fog.
Even I have gone myopic.
And the land is dominated
by what we can imagine,
which is a dangerous, dangerous topic.
The stillness in the air is existential
because we can’t see our potential
through the white and silver fog,
through the ancient, ample fog.
All good ideas could topple,
and death would be unstoppable in the fog.
I’m winding down a country road
to a future still unknown,
immersed in sorrow and the unavoidable traffic.
The sky is made of glass, condensation turns to rain or ice.
The sky was built to last, we’re sheltered by it for a price.
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