The bright sun snuffs to darkness and there\'s a growing smell of earth and rock
As huddled, caged men creak and bang, dropping down the dank mine
Cool air breathes past the shaft’s soaked timber and rot
The revolving beat of steam pumps fades, with their steady churn and whine
Choking whirling pickaxes strike gleaming seams by faltering candlelight
Muscles pouring sweat push ore-laden trucks along tunnels of rusting rails
No longer knowing if their grey-slated homes above have passed from day to night
Gruesome deaths and maiming slowly drip blood on that blasted maze of many tales
Such was the life of the brave menfolk that worked their years down the pits
Close knit community, never living far from a poor soul who’d perished in some sorrow
A shortened life of trauma, pain, illness, stoicism, dazed manliness and grit
Their passions and loves boiled a plenty with no guarantee they’d be here tomorrow
Tender young boys of the flowering mountain dragged to be men in those black, deep hell holes
But now little do tourists know or care, walking, laughing, all safe, taking their selfies on top
Glancing in the museum, the distant echoes of the stories are walked past and no longer told
The bored young boys of today loudly chewing their gum and sitting idly there, drinking their pop