A beryl mist,
A malachite fog,
The green desolation
of industrial smog.

An atmosphere heavy
with vaporous corruption,
The ersatz emerald aura
hewn of smokestack eruption.

A broken zephyr weeps
on this vortal coil,
While pollutants seep
their foul dystopian oil.

This is all that's left out on Orxon.

If anybody can hear this,
Run for it.

Make for space.