“I don’t do poetry.”
– Uroš Stanimirović, 2017
“Hush, dear child, do not fear − do not fret,”
murmured a loving mother, her hands soaked with sweat.
“A gift I bestowed upon you, I realize now,
was but a curse I never wished to endow;
an infant’s life should brim with divine love most pure
and not be burdened with hatred and suffering to endure.
In your mother’s bosom you should find sanctuary
and not a one-way ticket for the Styx ferry.
The time is nigh for you to go back to sleep;
the children are screaming − I can hear our neighbors weep.”
They are coming − she took her son and grabbed a shiv;
under the bed is not where real monsters live.
Tears trickled down her cheeks as she held his little head,
to perform the duty of Atropos filled the mother with dread.
She tried to whisper her farewells just before she made the cut;
her lips shuddered, but the words never left her gut.
“You’ll be saved from this world of filth, violence, and sin”
− a red stream started flowing under her son’s chin.
She closed his eyes and kissed him goodbye
while humming the sweet melody of this crimson lullaby.