Just like vapour escaping from the human mouth in which it was imprisoned,
You shoot out of the house with your back facing the one you love
Your face smothered with terror, like that of the boy from circumcision; smothered with luvhundi
You are sure you are leaving, but only the one from above knows if you will return.

As you chop off every metre of the distance
And like a ruthless knife you cut through the white dumps that can be seen from afar
You know the ground is waiting to swallow the whole of you
Not willing to consume you; only if it feels full
In that very pit, many before you have had to trade their lives merely for the title; "Miner".

Deep down you sink in pursuit of gold with which you will make money
The very buying power that will never make your pocket home
All the calories of the food you have not, are wasted adorning someone's palace beyond our sea shores
Work and work and work and work until you sweat the very last drop of your sweat
The bell rings, you come back – just as broke as before you left.

Talkers have shouted "Reforms" in those shafts and dumps
Demonstrators have chanted "Enough is enough" until they had sung enough of songs
Still rocks continue to feed of the blood of your partners in atrocious suffering
Again tomorrow, you go risk your life in the very pit of death
All these, in efforts to line the pockets of the very few white pigmented folks, you to this age – call "Baas".

Before you realise it, you are too old to search the womb of that earth any further.
Like they did with the bubble gum they chew, absorbed the sweetness and spat you
Right on the path that has become the cuddling partner of the car tires
You come back home useless and your age is wasted in the dumps
Your wife leaves you, because your waist can no longer consume the treasure of warmth in her thighs.

If you are lucky, you die earlier than that.
Leaving your children filthy rich with empty bank accounts and huge debts.
They will burry you with respect accorded a poor father.
A handful of friends and family come and bid goodbye to the dead you, and your dead corpse
No reading of obituary, nor a memorial tombstone, for you died just that; "poor father, poor miner".