The poem
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Bright faces coddle in dark designs They are in their pre-state Coals migrate from the diamond mines
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Too delicate to stand pressure and heat Of their unbearable abodes And unexhausted work of slimy peat
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Some skillful hands bring them In the mind-set factories To trim and shape in the form of a gem
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Fake colour fake shape do they gain For the sake of mortal yield Aim begins at home goal ends in pain
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In the smoky air black cloud appears With reddish firry sparks Black hands black faces and black tears Around the bloody stove shed all our dears
Submitted by Anjum Aziz Abbas
