The Smog

The morning should break with a golden flame,

But the sun hides weakly, too tired to claim.

A gray veil hangs where the heavens belong,

The air is heavy, the silence is strong.

Children cough where laughter should rise,

Birds lose their wings in the darkened skies.

The streets are a maze of shadow and haze,

A ghostly theater where daylight decays.

Yet smog is not only the smoke in the air,

It’s the lies we whisper, the truths we tear.

It’s promises broken, ambitions denied,

The fog of excuses in which we hide.

Factories hum with a restless greed,

Men forget earth while chasing their need.

Rivers grow tired, trees bow in despair,

And smog settles down like a curse in the air.

But still—within shadows, a spark can be born,

A voice can rise, though the lungs are worn.

If one hand plants where another destroyed,

If love fills the silence the smog has employed.

One day the sky will remember its blue,

When courage burns stronger than profits we pursue.

For smog is a mask, but it cannot stay long—

The earth still whispers her ancient song.

***

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