The Mine

Until these tunnels

Shall become our grave

We dwell with the poets

The eerie echoes

Of shameful choirs

Howl deep within here

Sounds of harm

Frome where the stillborn graze

Standing armed without a strategy

In a war

That never should have been declared

Eyes adapted to perpetual dawn

The trembling march of the offensive pack

With the bark of the hounds

Our final rhyme shall be composed

We await this, our time

When the foul screams of agony

Will sound through the mine.