Nickel

In the belly of the earth,
the cold shiny metal waits.
Men, mole like, burrow deep,
men, ant like, scurry busily
about their appointed tasks.

There is no day or night,
in this hot, dusty, deathly tomb.
The rock roof groans, threatens oblivion,

“Fire in the hole,” echoes in the darkness
Mother earth screams like a woman in labour,
as treasure is savagely ripped from her womb.

The cost is high, when men go deep,
in sweat, in blood, in broken bones,
in bodies mangled, in lives ended.
After each death, the madness continues.

The shiny metal is quickly swallowed,
by the hungry maw of industry.

More, more, more, the greedy cry,
as machines of war roll off the assembly line.
In the belly of the earth,
The cold shiny metal waits.

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