How many times do
You think you
Have lived?
Blind mole
I am tired of your arguments

Stray in your hole
Keep on laughing
At me –
The soft brown earth is not as thick
As my dense black skin –

I cannot hear you.
I cannot hear you in there
Yet I know you are out there.
Your recurring epitaph
Awaits again:

The grind
Did wring you, it ground you
Pension was indeed
Your resting place.
Your nesting place.

How many times do
You think you
Have died?
Just once more.
Just once more.

– Che Chidi Chukwumerije