What good is gold when the ground is lead,
brass, powder, poison earth and
dry riverbeds?
What good is gold when the shops are in ruins,
and the earth lies cold and
cratered as the distant moon?
What good is gold while children weep,
while fathers raise their hands and
daughters can only pretend
to sleep?

A man cannot eat gold
and no fish swim in the old mine.
I dream of shining chains
pulling down all mankind
into a pit, by his own hands designed,
where the secrets of the earth laid plain:
Heat, screeching, noxious fumes,
and the wicked shine of veins.