Poem: Baba Yaga


Baba Yaga

It’s broken, she says. Finally, it’s over. The clouds rise, and the sky seems like a whirlwind of nostalgia. She does not remember when it started and how it got there. Now the forest looks mysterious and terrifying.

It’s broken, she whispers to herself.
A small tear runs down her cheek. She wonders why the void. Trees are made of stones that feel like cotton. It is confusing and fascinating.

It’s broken, she murmurs. She approaches a little fox, the animal pees on her leg and leaves. Her nose starts to bleed. It’s broken, she stutters.

It is about grief. This is how grieving feels like. A loud noise: a thunder or a bomb. Think of loneliness while she keeps walking. At the end of the road, there is a house. Everything is black. The windows are closed, and two chicken feet rest in the back.

Are you Baba Yaga? She asks. The house shakes and shudders, but there is no response. A blind opens up, looking like an inquisitive eye. Is it about grief? Has the spell been broken? She asks again.

A door is wide open. The house wakes up, shaking her legs. Let me take you to a darker place. Once there, you will understand.

Her nose bleeds again. The clouds are stained, and the confusion looks like a Christian painting. The devil-faced cherubs are making a loud noise: a thunder or a bomb.

The door is wide open, but once inside, everything remains black, dry, slimy and hopeless. The house is moving. Its steps are deep. They go to the centre of the earth — like roots.

But, if it cannot be broken, What am I doing here? She screams at the walls. The blinds open up, and the brightest light enters the room. The house responds, but she cannot understand it. It is a shrill and haunting chant, reciting the Scriptures and telling the truth.

The door is wide open, said Baba Yaga.

Published by Cherry Adam

Moody experimentalist. Hypersensitive & Noir moments Poetry, Essays & Sound Experimentation Freelance Music Journalist

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