The mists are born

When the fogs grow old,

Heavy with hearts and tears.

Car headlights see only

A vague, hazy mirror:

“Look, there I am,

“And there I go.”

The clash of dark glass

Whirs like uncountable gongs

In the consciences of the

Dying minds of the mists—

“Yes, there you go,

“And here I still am.”

The mists, they beg,

“What do you think?”

Car headlights, they respond,

“That is for you to decide.”

And there is rain,

And there is flooding,

As the mists grow old.

In the water, car headlights

See; “Look, there I am,

“And here I still am,

“Entrapped. But why?”