Each day I pull myself up from the bottom.
My fingers find their way through the dark earth.
Each time I panic, for I’ve quite forgotten
My lungs will fill themselves again, for all it’s worth.
Each day I push the soft walls of my tomb
And when I hit a rock, I dare not cry.
I hide the blood, the dirt, the bruises and resume
To rise, defiantly, till I run out of sky.
I wake up in the dark again each day.
Without the recollection of my fall.
My hands are tired, and yet they dig away
What twenty horses cannot hope to haul.
I know it’s useless, yet I try to rise -
Because of all the hopefull eyes fixed on the skies.