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The Quiet Throne: A Poem on True Power

  "That’s not power. Power acts; it does not speak. Real power is the refusal to let the world corrupt your soul—it is the bravery to act from your most authentic self. What they chase is merely an illusion. The truly powerful hold power over themselves." - Shachem Lieuw The Quiet Throne: A Poem on True Power 👑✨ In a world that screams for attention, we often mistake noise for authority. We think the loudest voice in the room holds the crown, but as I’ve learned through my journey in tech, entrepreneurship, and roaming the districts of Suriname, real power doesn't need to introduce itself. It isn't found in a title or a bank account. It’s found in the mirror. The Illusion and the Truth They think it’s a roar, a thunderous sound, A name carved in stone, or a foot on the ground. They chase the shadow, the glitter, the gold, trading their peace for a story they’re told. But that is a ghost, a flicker, a trick— A flame with no heat, a hollow-wick. For power acts, it d...
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The ghost of Palulu: Part one: The strange shaman

The Ghost of Palulu

A colorful, cartoon-style book cover titled "**The Ghost of Palulu: Part 1: The Strange Shaman**." On the left stands a weathered, wide-eyed shaman with a wild beard and traditional tribal clothing. On the right, a glowing, translucent turquoise ghost of an ancient warrior points urgently toward the horizon. In the background, a winding river leads to a peaceful village, while ominous silhouettes of large sailing ships loom in the distance under a starry night sky.

Part 1: The Strange Shaman

I lie in the grass, eyes fixed on the sprawling night sky. In the South American jungle, the darkness falls with a sudden, heavy hand. Here in Palulu, we have no electricity, but my people have thrived for centuries by reading the movements of the trees and the whispers of the water.

The only light we have is what nature provides—a constant reminder of the universe’s immense power. Watching the star-dusted sky above our village of five hundred people feels like a cosmic performance. But while the villagers huddle together by the great river, I live out here on the edge, near the creek.

I am the Shaman of Palulu, though most call me "the strange one." I prefer the solitude. I don't like to be disturbed unless it is an absolute emergency, yet the villagers constantly trek to my hut, begging for charms to fix a broken heart or herbs to cure a lazy hunt. They fear me, but they cannot live without me. To me, the wind is a better companion than any man; I listen to the tales of the wind fairies who bring stories of the past, present, and the unfolding future.

The Apparition

Tonight, the wind didn't sing; it shivered.

As I lay there, the air grew unnaturally cold. A mist began to rise from the creek, swirling into a shape that defied the breeze. Slowly, a figure manifested—a warrior from a time before our ancestors settled this bend in the river. He was translucent, his skin the color of moonlight, with a spear made of shimmering light.

It was the Ghost of Palulu, the ancient guardian of our soil. He had not appeared in three generations.

"Strange Shaman," the spirit hissed, his voice sounding like the grinding of tectonic plates. "You hide from your people, but you cannot hide from the tide that is coming."

"I seek peace, Great Spirit," I replied, sitting up and bowing my head. "The villagers bother me enough with their petty grievances. Why do you stir the air tonight?"

The Message from Across the Sea

The Ghost pointed a shimmering hand toward the East, far beyond the canopy, toward the Great Salt Water.

"A tribe from far over the seas is coming," the Ghost warned. "They arrive in floating fortresses of wood and cloth. They carry 'thunder-sticks'—weapons unknown to our kind that spit fire and lead. They have already conquered villages ten times the size of Palulu. They do not come to trade; they come to devour."

My blood ran cold. I had seen visions of "fire-sticks" in my dreams, but I had dismissed them as fever dreams.

"They are savages clothed in iron," the spirit continued, his form beginning to flicker. "They do not respect the balance of the forest. You must leave your solitude, Shaman. Go to the village. Tell them to abandon the river. They must prepare to hide, to vanish into the deep lungs of the jungle, or they will be erased from memory."

The Vanishing and the Burden

"They won't listen to me!" I shouted. "They think I am a madman who talks to the rain!"

The Ghost began to dissolve, his form turning into a flurry of white petals that vanished before they touched the grass. But as he disappeared, he left a physical mark behind—a small, heavy ball of lead that had been fired from one of those "thunder-sticks." It sat in the grass, cold and smelling of sulfur.

I picked up the metal seed of destruction, my hand trembling. The peace of my creek was gone. I looked toward the distant fires of the village, where the people were likely dancing and laughing, unaware that a storm of iron was sailing toward them. I hated the village, but I was their only hope.

Author’s Note: The peace of Palulu is over, and the Shaman’s greatest challenge isn't the invaders—it's convincing his own people to listen. Will they heed his warning, or will the "Iron Savages" find them first?

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