Andra-Astrid Belibou is participating in the International Literary Creation Competition, 7th Edition, from Constanța, Romania and is 32 years old. We thank her for her participation and wish her success.

It Takes a Village

It takes a village to bury a woman,
Silence her and burn the scrolls.
Urns of ashes of former prophets—
No one will preach upon the knolls.

It takes a village to bury a woman,
Cowards and traitors stir the earth.
Greater burrows have never been seen—
When has a life been held less worth?

It takes a village to bury a woman,
Shackles and bandages bind together.
An absent mind, an absent gaze—
Blood, veins, and scars, tattooed like heather.

It takes a village to bury a woman,
A crowned fool on a throne of thorns.
Guilt does not sting; cadavers do not smell.
He'll make sure no one for her mourns.

It takes a village to bury a woman,
But I shall rise from my grave,
Speak the truth and name the villain,
For I, to no man, will be a slave.


Drinni

Little bud growing inside me,
I loved her long before I knew her.
Before I felt her, she was already mine—
The promised one, my saviour.

She was protected, safe from them,
Cloaked in darkness, though she was the light.
My only hope, my truest love;
I dreamed her face, I knew her eyes.

But what I met was purple and cold.
Her hand would never hold mine.
Her voice was forever lost to the world,
And her heartbeat never answered mine.


Roots

These branches have lost their nests.
No birds, no eggs, no chirps for ages.
The trunk has long since dried,
Its bark strewn across the land.
One house in one town,
Fences blocking every view,
Stones concealing names and roots.
It was not the pipes of civilization
That birthed this wasteland.

The wood, turned into paper, bears its marks—
Erased lines of forgotten names,
Faceless ghosts of the past.
We remember them no longer.
Were they ever alive at all?
Poppies after bombings,
Cries after births,
Endless battles for survival.
There were so many; now none remain.

Do you know you are alone now,
With nothing left to come?
No sprouts from your barren womb;
The only hunger is for love.
Scars not carved by bullets,
Yet no less deadly for it.
We rot in the same ground,
With no one left to weep for us, the forgotten.
Burned are the legacies written on paper.