Isabella Francis (18 June 1996 / India)
Cloud In The Fog
The cold wind cuts through my face like glass,
Along two lines on my cheeks it was exceptionally sharp.
The moon shone down on me covering me with a silver hue,
The icy ground like indigo stained my feet frosted and blue.
My fingers crackled as I tried to move them
My toes refused to move however much I told them.
My clothes threadbare, hung along my body with no other choice,
My hair scattered all over my shoulder holds the raining ice.
There is no sign of life in this isolated venue
I’ve left all hope of any possible rescue.
As the streaks of pink show up on the horizon,
The fog sets into play as appears the sun.
The sun is nothing but a show of nature,
Even it is cold with no warmth in its features.
As the fog robs me of my partial vision
I see a little cloud appearing like an illusion.
The little cloud was made up of the vast fog
Yet they felt as different as a desert and a bog.
The cloud seemed to grow as it neared me,
It held me gently and cut me free:
Of my cold bondages. It tried to melt my heart
That had frozen in the long icy past.
It defeated all the fog and protected me fruitlessly from the cold
As the fog cleared the sun shone on my face bold.
The cloud wrapped me in a beautiful gown
It swung me on itself and flew me north along.
I flew like the wind over mountains and molehills
Still frozen as ice, the wind giving me chills.
The sun drew closer, closer every second,
After rising for seven days there began my descent.
Below me loomed a warm tropical village,
I landed square on my feet before a tiny cottage.
The cloud gave me a message that it had done all this for me,
But it didn’t for once know my history.
I look south with my fog blinded eyes new to the vision
The warmth after cold is like handcuffs when out of prison.
I still stand as frozen as an idol
Even after saving me, it left me alone, the cloud.
The tropics now cut through my face like a knife
Exceptionally cold on two lines of my cheeks like ice.
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