Mist in the early morning of February,
Like a white cloak covering,
Soft warm glowing street light trying to break through,
Beautiful and mysterious.
Mist in the early morning,
Like ghostly shadows,
people silently walking through.
As the mist thickens in the air,
Crows flew in the sky,
Resting on the low branches,
calling loudly in the cool, silent morning...
What a contrast in colour!
Strangely presence in this white misty air.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Beautifully penned. Takes one right to the scene, as if it were a firsthand experience.