The Black Gold


The wooden legs

Crawling and climbing the roots of rotten ores.

The Lords are blinded by the Gold;

The soil sliding off; the hollowness of Earth cannot bind;

The trifling Colonial is loosed upon the seas,

Centuries passed by but there thrust never dried.

The lustful gyre thrives, and the thrust went unquenched,

The Landlords drench all judgements, while

The Tribes buried under the Black Dust!

The broken finger tips dipped with blooded ink

The Hands turned wooden with tempered churn.

The cyclic weather turned, from

Roasting summer to falling autumn;

Washing rain to freeze frost.

But their Hands never Stopped!

Digging the Gold.

The cuckoo’s be lost to sight,

Beheard the song unsung.

The Smokey air, rusted breathe

The breaking crust, melting bones

Shovelling coal, cracked heals,

Stitched lips, the songs for work will

Eloped as the Golden Bird was colonised to be civilised.

Remains of song unsung,

Did exist within the sunken ember.

The vaccination drops never reached,

The infants.

But the blackness of gold dust coated there breathe.

Stamped there birth with an

Unwashable will. Off Lordship!

The first cry of It,

The tears slides down the cheeks;

Crossing the dusty lane of blackness,

Layered upon it.

Just after the birth


The black tears rolled;

And dips the rusted Soil,

Around the lost Dreams.

The spot sprouted a rebellious shoot.

Surely, the rebel has landed the ground.

The wooden feet’s,

Thatched over head tons of coal,

Walked miles to unload.

With pennies handed on there palms,

While the Lord ’strikes a million pounds.

The cyclic tetrad, needs to elope.

Birth, mining, starve, death.

A blow of rebel, needs to knock.

The strike of change will break the walls.

The Black Gold lighted the Lords villa, top-notch

But the Tribes ghetto got injected with the black storms!

Caged body, wet eyes, shrunken feet’s,

But a drop tears dipped in the Rusted Soil

Was enough to rejuvenate

The flickering hopes within.

To thrive back on the soil,

Which was theirs

And was not meant to be decayed.







Author: Sonali Gupta
Gumla, Jharkhand, India.
Picture Nick Victor

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