IN THE CERRO RICO

Clang. Twist. Clang. Twist - Clang. Twist. Hour after hour.
After hour after hour. Clang. Twist. Twist. Clang.
Clang Twist

The miner strikes the iron rod with a hammer upper-
Cut, then twists it, then strikes again. There’s a coca chunk in
His cheek, big as a golfball. There’s arsenic on the mountain
Wall and sulphuric acid underfoot, but he can’t afford
So much as a mask, forget about gloves. He’s been working
Twenty four hours straight, alone, guided by a pale light.

The invaders sent his forefathers to work on
Three month shifts. Daylight forgot them. They emerged half-
Blind. The strongest survived two shifts. None survived three.

Clang. Twist. Twist Clang. Clang. Twist. Hour after hour.
Hour after hour after Clang. Clang Twist Clang.
Clang Twist

The miner’s making a hole for his dynamite.
The dynamite shop sells only to miners and
Tourists. We bought four sticks and some loose TNT,
Like little polystyrene balls. He’ll blow a hole
In the seam and sieve for zinc or lead. The silver’s
Almost gone, but the mountain still bestows a kind
Of living on eight thousand. Who make their offerings
Of coca, fags and hooch to the fickle sprit of
Cerro Rico, El Tio, hoping he’ll show them
The richest seam they’ve ever seen, make them lucky,
Make them rich. But most die young and poor, victims of
Silicosis and the ninety six per cent raw
Booze they down on a Friday night, as they try to
Forget. Forget about their troubles and their strife.
Forget the sound of the hammer uppercut, Clang
Twist Clang, echoing in their heads, hour after hour.


potosi 10.10.04