The sweat gliding all the way down from his forehead to his chin,
Uniting with the hot stream traveling down the deep mine,
The child mangling the rocks with his hammer,
Desperately looking for the minerals he seek.
In the darkness of underground,
Where the whole sense of vision relies on a single bulb,
He feels every minute buries him even deeper,
Closer to hell, closer to death.
A drop of tear pouring down from his eye,
Cleaning the layers of dried mud and dirt,
On his still childish cheeks.
There he sees a light,
Constantly increasing in size,
Now everything is bright,
Except the blood minerals he has in sight.