Who Is In The Fog Poem by Prof Niamat Ali Murtazai

Whenever Fog comes and roams about
In her whitish bulk I feel some doubt.

I feel some unheard footsteps
Follow me without stops.

They neither come near
Nor they go too far.

Perhaps it is some past memory
Or the dead days ghost hoary.

Or my own fickle fancy
Or peaceful Fog's discrepancy.

Never alone I feel in this earthly cloud
Surrounded by an endless crowd.

Fog is the dispersion of my memories
Or a noise of my soul's silent cries.