the mine

In the belly of the earth, where light fears to tread,
I stand.
My hands, calloused storytellers,
Speak of the rock and the hard place.
Here, in the dust-laden air,
My father's laughter once mingled with the clang of steel,
And my grandfather's ghost still whispers in the stone.

This is a world of darkness, but oh, how we shine!
With every swing of the pick, every cart of coal,
We wrestle with the earth itself.
We are sculptors of the deep,
Shaping the void, carving out our place in the darkness.

The grime on my face, the dirt under my nails—
It's more than the earth's embrace.
It's a badge, a testament to the sweat and blood that this place demands.
Each speck of coal dust in the air, a fragment of our soul.

And yet, there is beauty here.
In the heart of the mountain, where time stands still,
We find our truth.
The weight of the world above us, it doesn't crush; it molds, it makes us.
Our backs may ache, our muscles may scream,
But there is pride in this pain, honor in this toil.

This coal, this black diamond, it's more than just fuel.
It's a legacy.
It's the warmth of a hearth, the light in the darkness,
The story of a family—a lineage of men made from and returning to the earth.

So here I stand, in the echo of the past,
A man of the present, shaping the future.
With each day spent in the depths,
I carry on the tradition of those who dug before me.
And when I emerge into the light,
I carry the mine with me,
In the lines of my face, in the strength of my hands,
In the resolve of my spirit.