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Questions to Ask in South Africa #1

Written in the style of Don MacLennan

I look down from my position at the top of the lift.
Down into the depths of darkness,
Where many workers make their wage.
The layers of  silica dust that coat the equipment
Cause a man somewhere in these tombs,
To cough and splutter,
And if it’s silicosis?
His family will starve without him.
 
I don’t quite understand why they would do it;
Work every day in this cumbersome heat,
Clamorous machinery, dark, dull colours
With a single lantern to light their paths.
All for a measly wage which will buy their family
A carton of milk; a crust of bread;
And the weekly rent on their small hovel.
But then again, what other option is there?
 
Over there, the workers shovel landslide,
To their left a forklift raises a man up high
to secure the wires and pipes
that run down every tunnel.
The smell here is of work;
Men–
Sweating and cussing.
Machines with their incessant droll.
This meaningless arrangement:
Important to them
For this is their home.
 
But to me, it’s just another Why?
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