This sand,
it sears the flesh.
Abrasions form
where once unblemished
cheeks shone bright
with hope.
This train,
it moves so slow,
so achingly slow,
There seems no end
to this long ride.
Eyes grow opaque,
no images,
just searing wind
blowing glass-edged
grains that sear away
protective layers.
They seem endless,
these days of travel
to the mines.
They seem hollow,
vacant as the echos
of dreams once dreamt.
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