Prose is a form of hiding
Within a forest of words
Poetry it is that betrays
The wounds behind the words

Prose says a lot of things
In order not to say one thing
Poetry says one little thing
In which is contained everything.

Where does pain come from?
Does it, like the wind
Arise when hot air rises
And the cold creeps in within?

Where does time go
While we’re waiting for it?
Where do you find hope
When you’ve lost it?

There is a flame
It is your spirit, it burns
It touches upon a point
That yearns and yearns and yearns….

– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.