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Poetry

Germinal

The sky is crows and yellow black.
The acid dirt is sown.
The terraces of slate walled huts,
cry twists of smoke to gods unknown.

Down the mine we go.
Our hearts are heavy, sad and slow.
But only we can hear the Earth.
His breath is black and still below.
And only we can feel his soul,
in fists of coal, our backs bent low.