Beneath the farm there lies a mine,
its chambers sealed beyond the wind,
where rotting prop and empty truck
stretch out their fingers to be found.
We sit in a circle in the room
and read our words as if to pray,
while far below the miners sing,
urging their voices to the sky.
Beneath the earth there lies a tomb
where caverns twist and tunnels weave,
while far above, the farm itself
gathers its timbers as a grave.
This place has little left to say.
The shaft was severed like a vein.
All blood is shed, all bones are dry.
No feet shall pass that way again.