He
knows the effort it costs him
The
back-breaking work
Rock-cracking
and sifting
In
the heat, the filth and the mud
Naked
and exhausted
To
find the tiny lumps
The
speckles of value
Precious
pieces, the grains that mean so much
Just
enough to exist, to eat, to carry on
Hunting,
scavenging rat-like
In
a diabolic hole inside the Earth
A
dark world of danger
Among
the drills and the dust
Driven
to daily desperation
Crawling
through flooded shafts
To
reach a promising seam
Of
grit that holds the glitter of gold
And
a faint glimmer of hope
Yet
he never sees it
Transported,
transformed
Refined
and purified
Into
to heavy brick-like blocks
Which
sit, unused, in high-security rooms
National
gold reserves
To
guarantee the currency
And
maintain an appropriate short supply
To
keep the price high enough
Within
the global market
Or
spun into delicate filaments
Its
decorative strands
Worked
by artistic hands
To
adorn elegant, well-heeled figures
Among
the wealthy and well-to-do
Who,
in a languid moment
May
reach out for their electronica
Slim-line
models in brushed-leather cases
With
all the latest features
To
access and communicate
Across
the world at the touch of a button
Perhaps
even to the dark heart of Africa
Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012
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