Gravediggers In The Petroleum Industry Poem by Mohammad Yousef

In the land of black gold,
where dreams bubble up like crude,
they don't just dig for riches,
they dig for the future,
with shovels made of plastic and ambition.

Gravediggers in hard hats,
they stand in a circle,
chanting the mantra of profit margins,
while the earth beneath them
holds its breath,
as they carve out tombs for the trees,
those ancient sentinels,
watching their green lives slip
into a slick of oil and asphalt.

With every swing of the pickaxe,
they plant the seeds of irony—
for every barrel they unearth,
they bury a little more of us,
and the planet sighs,
"Not again…"

Oh, the sweet aroma of gasoline!
A perfume for the modern-day alchemist,
who turns nature into numbers,
and sells the sky,
one fracked well at a time.
They wear their helmets like crowns,
the kings of a kingdom
that will soon be a desert,
a wasteland of rusting rigs,
where the only sound is the echo
of their laughter,
bouncing off the bones of the earth.

"Dig, boys, dig! " they cry,
as they dance on the graves of ecosystems,
with a jig so delightful,
you'd think they were celebrating
a birthday party for the last polar bear.
"Just a little more, and we'll be rich! "
They toast with cups of crude,
toasting to the ghosts
of the creatures that roamed freely,
before the asphalt jungle
rose to swallow them whole.

And what about the carbon footprints?
They stomp around,
as if they're playing in the sand,
unaware that the tide is coming in,
with a wave of consequence,
ready to wash away their laughter,
leaving only remnants of plastic
and the residue of regret.

In their mind's eye,
the horizon is a glittering promise,
a mirage of endless wealth,
while the rest of us
hold our breath,
waiting for the inevitable collapse,
the grand finale of exploitation,
where gravediggers swap their shovels
for picket signs,
and demand a burial plot
in a world that's still breathing.

So here's to the gravediggers,
with their charcoal dreams and oil-stained hands,
may they find humor in the irony,
as they dig their own fate,
one laugh, one barrel at a time,
in this twisted comedy
of profits and plunder.
For when the curtain falls,
and the lights dim on this stage,
who will be left to hear the applause?
Just the ghosts of what once was,
and the echo of laughter,
that may turn to tears.