Sometimes on quiet evenings
I visit hillside villages.
The music of poor men comforts me.
Days spent tunneling underground
must be so dark and harsh, but outdoors
at night, miners fill the village air
with songs of light . . .
until guitar players and singers
are surrounded
by drinkers,
and fights break out,
guns are drawn,
shots fired,
people injured.
When I accompany a doctor
to the bedside of a wounded man,
it feels oddly familiar
to once again be
a witness,
an outside observer
possessing no weapons
just verses
mere words.
This could have been me, lying bleeding
and helpless, back when I was younger
and more reckless, drinking, fighting,
and rebelling against the whole world
instead of just speaking out against
injustice.
At dawn, I leave the hills,
my heart filled with wonder
at the way human voices
persist in singing to blue sky,
no matter how crushing
the poverty, no matter
how dark
the tunnels
where miners
are forced to labor,
their suffering constantly
interrupted by daydreams.