The task at hand is arduous
descending into the frigid tunnel
way below the mirth of revelry
closer to life and death crossroads
bracing myself for the inevitable hunger,
explosives, toxic gases and collapses,
all because of the much coveted rocks
that may contain a small fortune
in gold
I mumble a prayer
make a payment to earth
I want that sweat of the sun
being dropped into the receptacle
perpetually lustrous metal
awaits for me to strike it rich
even if it means destroying
myself
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem