Tribal Banishment
They come alive at night, in the deepest crevices of the dark hours.
They tread and rumble in the same spot, spinning,
long before our kind set foot on land,
and chased the predator away from the woods and grass, and shrubs from the foot,
building huts in place of nests and dens,
and burning lamps for defence—our race harnessed the prowess of the flames.
Fire was inherited from those nocturnes, and from the rumbling clouds in part.
It was an aid to our incompetence, when polar winds froze our flesh and limbs—
a fire lit, to let water boil by its rage, and the fish we caught as prey.
The group would sit together and take turns watching over the horizon
while the rest settled in covers for the day.
Days were tough, shelters were scarce,
Siberia was far afterall—beyond a blizzard that blinded those that went this way.
I would lay down at night, glance at the sky,
see how those people in the steppe hold abode today.
The stars as they seemed, held all those that were destined to come,
and those that had strived against odds, for us to carry the stone.
The sky also embodied every desire of man;
it ruled judgement upon those that served in command, on land,
within their rented shells.
There was also a sense of futility the stars assured, in crossing the bridge I was on,
or mourning alongside the mother who had lost her son,
or talking to that person from the other tribe,
that travelled here from the other side,
instead of crossing blades—aiming for the nape.
We wouldn't meet again.
Doom had been cast upon their soul,
the skin grew dull, influxed with colour,
instead of our subtle pale—I was still weak, I couldn't help,
they were sure to die without external aid.
The bridge had to be crossed before sunset, said the man in charge,
who would barge into tents, for the lust of the visage, to cease sovereignty,
and the will of the women.
We couldn't protest—our tongues might as well had been cut
and buried along the dead.
We could frown for the other, and cry for our loss,
but never conglomerate under the common facticity of our existential avail.
I held a perspective of the world that was put repeatedly to shame,
I'd have to compensate, and keep other people in check, and at bay.
Under the stars, when it was my turn to call a moment's worth of rest,
I would look at the stars, and see the state of the steppe,
and the valley, as it was that day.
I hadn't before possessed the courage to contradict the celestial order,
but I felt a desire arise within me today—
to run and chase that person, and learn their tongue—
declare banishment from our tribes.
The ambition was bleak,
I didn't have enough food to get back to mainland,
but it was a purpose I was willing to bet for, and charge towards.
“The strife is bleak, yet sizably large.
In the days that follow may courage be blessed with continuity by time,
and for that external will to come to stand alongside—
the path spares only some from the hundreds that pass,
may the path spare the odds, and show bloom this time instead of glass-shards.”