We are disemboweling
The deep earth’s treasure,
Down here, hunched low, I scrape
The blackened must of ages
You never saddled me,
Though you had reason,
You left me to my own,
Though you wait above, in light.
Each day my sweat becomes blackened,
      Embossed with this strange fruit.
They say we have a pride,
But I only hold your image in hour’s toil,
Knowing well the earth takes it’s toll,
      Groaning in silence,
And I,
Expending myself,
Have only a charm of faith.
Humbly, humbly I chip away,
      Six hundred feet below top soil.

– Sphulinga McManus.


Return to the April 1999 index page

Return to the Top