I am the daughter of the burnt baobab book by Rodney Saint-Éloi
I am the daughter of the burnt baobab book by Rodney Saint-Éloi
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Description
I am the daughter of the burnt baobab. This is not a poem. It is the tree that seeks its face. I am at once the tree, the girl and the road. I accompany the one who offers the night her fable and her voice. I would like to go all the way without knowing the way. I stumble, drift and rave. What does it matter. A bird beats the drum in my head, a witch speaks through my mouth, or a broken love torments me. Storm I call myself a whirlwind. I have a date with the shadows. I have a date with the first star that falls. Stories grow in my belly that start again endlessly. There is always a life to do or to redo. We know nothing of what gnaws or exalts. I seal my alliance with exile and madness. I am the daughter of the burnt baobab. To recover my face, I must entrust my secrets to the winds, abandon my promises to the tree. I know neither the appetite nor the prison of what is called living. I only think of walking in my dreams. If I cry it is to remind myself that I exist and that I love. I laugh too loudly, talk until exhaustion in order to go further, with the patience of the shepherdess and the anguish of sailors. I am beautiful, flamboyant and insolent. I have the sun in one hand and the earth in the other. It is my way of watching for eternity. I have breasts that smell of poetry and death. I am the daughter of the burnt baobab. I seek a welcoming land with the word of dawn. I scream. I ramble. I swing. Do not listen to my voice. It is my soul that cracks. The poem, or what remains of my identity, remains a hindered truth. Consumed. I am the daughter of the burnt baobab.
