I can only see dark faces
returning homes from the mines.
There is fear in their eyes,
in their sluggish walk.
Here, everyone thinks about
the future, of uncertainties and fears.
The houses are small, their interiors
waiting for new arrivals.
The club house is the only place
where bright lamps take away
the evenings to gossip;
the strangers are not liked at all.
Somewhere near it, a young girl’s voice
speaks of love and compassion.
Here, lovers are few. They spend their time
talking of distant places where
there wouldn’t be any fear.
There is death here, walking
hand in hand with life, like
the sun and the moon, day and night.
Death is discussed in close circles
and decisions are made regarding
how exactly death should come.
Someone is assigned the task
of clearing off inconsiderate faces.
The sound of bullets rushing
through the nights mix with the sound
of walking feet in the slush
of clay and death, past and future.
There are bodies that open out
waiting to be buried;
the end has its voice too.
Who takes care of this
town, offers it the much-needed
shelter from death?
The dark valley is full of
noiseless lives, their moments
too precious to be forgotten.
Who waits here to be spoken to
in the middle of the plans
for survival, as if nothing
was lost, nothing gained?
