Though dimly lit, though dreary and damp,
the moon hath shone upon the camp.
Three weary eyed worn weathered men
had nearly met the journey's end.
Across the mountains stark and tall,
the precious metal sent its call.
The promise of wealth seen tried and true,
but men who met its needs were few.
As morning spilled its rays of light,
the riverbed they sought caught sight.
By noon the miner's goal was reached,
the final destination breached.
The Promised Land! The game was won!
Yet still the work had to be done.
These three men toiled through day and night,
never breaking stride, their trophy in sight.
But soon the wind blew forth a chill,
a test of strength, endurance, will.
In turn the powder drifted down, the rivers froze,
hope all but drowned.
Three weary men left out to die,
the lust for gold possessing their eyes.
They dug and clawed at frozen ground,
whispering wind the only sound.
The frozen day met frozen night,
now black and cold no warmth in sight.
As forth there fluttered one final breath,
a calmness wrapped the men in death.
The final call, the answered plea, a miner's dreaded destiny.

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