Digging to China

poem about death

Poem

 

Well I was digging my way to China,
shovel and all,
hands dirty with the past,
with the miles of mud dug, displaced,
disposed.

I was digging my way to China when
my shovel twanged on stone
and I stopped.

There is no escaping Mother Nature
in life, death,
or in trying to dig to China.

There is no escaping these echoes
of metal on stone,
no escaping the twang of your death
echoing through the halls of life,
shuddering through me
like the twanging reverberating in
the halls of this tunnel I dug.

Do echoes ever end?

 

more by A. M. LAINE

photograph by Pascal Frei

 

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