We are but wax,
That burns itself to keep the dark at bay,
And in the shining dies.
Or tender green,
New-wash’d with dawn, that lifts a hopeful face,
Till a jealous noon strikes down and leaves it ash.
We bless our thoughts; no blessing comes of them.
We pray in circles, words that go nowhere.
Then rage at Time, and beat our griefs with fists,
As children strike the wind and call it war.
Our woes stand fast.
We learn too late, too clear:
We are not masters, only crying babes,
Unfit to steer the violent tide of fate.
So we entomb our passions in the skull;
For let the heart receive such molten grief,
It would o’erboil and split its brittle walls,
A warped cauldron, ill-cast for such fire.
Yet mark the curse: in solitude we kneel
Where demons gather, soft of tongue and near,
And drink the counsel of our private fears.
They speak.
We yield.
They conquer.
The mind springs leaks; its channels flood with dread.
Horrors we forge become our daily bread.
Shame gnaws us thin; our selves grow strange, mis-shap’d.
We name ourselves less worthy than the dogs,
And, press’d to night’s sharp edge, we tumble down
Into that pit where ending needs no name.
Thus are we wax.
We blaze a stolen breath,
Then Time, grown weary, snuffs us without pause.
(Excerpt from “Ptochos”—an unpublished play written by Obongofon Etuk)
Obongofon Etuk is a Nigerian poet, playwright, and pharmacist, with works published in journals such as Afrocritik and Brittle Paper. His writing is strongly informed by the Shakespearean school of thought, and he has a particular passion for exploring human existence and moral complexity through his verses. When not writing, he is an avid supporter of FC Barcelona.
Cover ohoto credit: Pic Itsuda