Woe, my stomach is sick,
Tired of the ***** kicked nowhere,
Sick of all the goodies of where,
My stomach is sick.

Sick of butterflies that perch
and flutter, celebrating my not yet death ,
Slowly I die.

Surely, dead roses I will be buried,
My tombstone engraved THE GRAVED,
INGCWABA LOFILE(Grave of the death)
Love killed the death.

Bengifile the time ufika(I was dead the time you pitch)
Then, you breathed into my mouth
your soul of life
You were my last life.

My stomach is sick.