Scars
Scars
Look at these hands, aren't they filthy?
Smeared in dust and dirt, dark and muddy.
The skin is worn, burnt and scratched,
Yet they serve me with a service, unmatched.
Yes, I work in a coal mine morning or night,
My day begins in darkness and ends in the dark night.
I hear only blasts, see fumes everywhere,
I breathe the dynamite smoke that makes my life haywire.
My family pines for my visits, my kids yearn for my embrace,
But I am occupied at the mines, quarrying caves after caves.
This is my dark story and it yearns for some light,
I know it doesn't bother you but ponder a little on my plight.
I break mountains to satisfy you with the gleaming crystal,
You enjoy every luxury as I struggle on chewing my life's gristle.