Once clear, the skies, or’come by ashen mists
descend upon the land with growing doom.
Congealed, it throbs — the noxious smog persists,
wrapping the earth in its indulgent tomb.

The smoke throughout, in every guarded space,
from city, home, and table, down to cot,
until it saturates us whole. No place
is left unswayed: and thus we find all naught.

It stains the eye, the nose, it coats the tongue,
it spills into the veins of one’s own heart.
Our faces that appear like tried men hung
now only bleak despair can clear impart.

We sought a savior. Then, with all and none,
we sacrificed on altars made of stone.
We prayed to stars and moon and languid sun;
we spilt our blood, burnt bread, and laid down prone.

Our efforts still brought nothing. Just the same
impassive, tumorous, affront of cloud,
consuming men’s minds ‘til alone in name
could here the virtue Wisdom be endowed.