Lullaby

I wish I could whisper your name, but the pain in my ribs is too great. I just don’t want to sleep, if there is nothing to wait of the coming day.
It is still snowing here, still blizzard dances, still passers-by run. I don’t have to read books to imagine you, my beloved son.
My friends don’t believe me: “how?” they write, “yours? Can’t be! Really?”. For now he is safe in my arms, lying there so godly.
He is Artjom for grown-ups and strangers. At home he will be Tim. What’s his surname? Later. Don’t want to decide it for him.
The shadow of eyelashes on his cheeks. He cuddles up to my breast. He lies in my arms. Soon he’ll start to walk, he’ll pass his first great test.The surname – rubbish, that’s not the point. He’s jet got time to decide. I am so scared for him and then let him on with his own life.
Ten years weighted on scales. Rain is running down my hair. My son is too tall, and he thinks hitting first is unfair.Don’t be ashamed of crying, only dead scum doesn’t cry. And if you get hit – don’t believe it, January is really toothless and shy.
At first he goes for a walk, and then he leaves for LA. I sigh: “what’ve you got yourself into?”, and then call him: “is everything ok?”
And one night a ring will charge through my timeless backbone. My son is too tall. And he is so desperately alone.
Look, my Tim, how dark it is, listen, Tim, the time is fast and near, Tim, when a dream escapes, I don’t know how to comfort you, dear.
Listen, Tim, enduring the silence, I burn out the heart’s pus. It is so great that you didn’t happen to me in the past.
Anguish is weaving a web, my bed smells with loneliness. See, I jet fail not to kill even myself in the process.
I know one day winter’s sails will transform into mountains of everyday life. I will then apply the rye “we” in exchange for my own dead “I”.
But for now I have my January, the wind is tearing grass in the rusty mist. I plead to you, be you not. Be happy – do not exist.

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