In the afternoon of a vehicle,our talk would run
About a coal belt ,a small talk about its mafia
Of black diamonds glistening in a morning fog.
The talk runs alongside a scrapped axle yard
Of dismembered army vehicles on loose sale
Many axles, many gearboxes and dead parts
That could be transplanted to alive vehicles
As parts of wholes or as holes of their parts.
A hot coal wall at times caves in to swallow
People ,like giant lizards in the primordium
Because the empty coal holes resound with air
And a hot sand refuses to come from the river
To fill their holes emptied by a greedy coal.
A little girl named smile gathers black diamonds
From the pithead, pitted against a big government
In its khakhi authority , for two flattened breads
For a family’s stomach, engulfed by big coal fires.
Local coal stories are black and greedy narratives
That leave you sick in the coal pit of a stomach.