Beneath the Bulbous Baobab Tree

Beneath the bulbous baobab tree,

we lie in wait,

tethered to a cruel fate,

surrounded by one-of-a-kind kindred spirits,

forever linked, interlocked in an intricate web

of a tripartite world:

the living, the dead, and the unborn.

Hanging on the periphery

as we tread ever cautiously

the delicate maze of life,

our eyes constantly roaming back and forth

between several worlds,

our hearts pounding,

our feet trembling as we tread paths to those who seek us,

only to be wrenched back ever so viciously

by destinies not ours,

by time measured and allotted to us.

We are slaves, destined to obey the mystic calls.

And so, however our hearts may yearn,

however heavy their hearts may bleed,

however burdensome their grief may be,

we must turn a blind eye.

We are reapers,

sedulous souls forever bringing a harvest of tears,

bountiful and fresh,

shiny rivulets collected at the greatest moments of despair,

or perhaps at the greatest heights of love.

We are changelings.

We are ephemeral.

We are ancient beings of the universe,

a curious wonder,

shrouded in mystery,

cloaked in mysticism,

flashing shadows never taking root,

transient souls, seeking, searching, yet never steadied,

flitting shadows, flailing, floundering between several worlds.

I am the terror of the night that strikes.

I am the affliction that arises at the allotted hour.

I am a cruel taskmaster,

forever clawing at your heart.

I am insatiable,

a bottomless abyss destined to empty your storehouse.

Though you may pour your countless libations,

though you may unearth my talisman

and bring diviners from the four corners of the earth,

and they may lie through their teeth,

promising unachievable feats,

though you may scar, brand, and blemish me,

and make me a souvenir from previous lifetimes,

though you may evoke names that bind me here,

though you may plead

and rend the night with howls and piercing screams,

your pleas fall on deaf ears.

I am Abiku,

child of numerous worlds,

doomed to roam the corners of the earth,

doomed to roam from one hollow womb to another.

Better yet, save your prayers and petitions for another,

for the cycle must continue.

Collection: Literesque Prize 1, Poetry List.
Style: Lyrical