(For Alejandro)

The rumors about us devouring our young are lies, vicious
lies spread by your foul, corrupt regime. We treasure our
naked, squirming spawn, and hold them tenderly as we rush
through the tunnels. On weekends, we let them glimpse the
outer world: caterpillars, discarded paper bags, autumn
leaves. Though still blind and tender, they squeal with
delight, and our hearts melt. Paw in paw, we pull them back
down to the brown Earth. It is out there that your kind
would eat them if they only had a chance. You accuse us of
such atrocities? How dare you!

My daughter, Milkin, is two months old now, and already digs
on her own. Yesterday, she brought us a centipede for
dinner. How proud we were, the entire family! But we warned
her not to dig too deep. Down, down, where the darkness is
eternal, there live your predecessors, their evil tentacles
jealous for your October sun. We can hear their whispers,
their plans. When your towers crumble, as they must, they
will return to inherit the brown Earth. When that happens,
we shall devour our young, to save them from the darker
shadow. Until then: up yours, you fucking bastards! Mole
power! Mole! Mole! Mole!