The mist so thick,
glistening yet gray,
making the sky so pale.
It's crawling up the fields,
like a creature from a cave,
it rolls towards us, slowly, slowly.
From the sea it came,
from the blackest water of lakes,
the Hell in a filthy puddle.
It moves onto us with a stench of salt,
with a scent of pain,
with a feeling of hopelessness.
The shriek of a dying bird,
the whisper of a sickness' lips,
the sound of being destined to a life of misery,
it comes with the fog,
heavily sinking from the sky.

By Shulgalaj

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