I brought you presents, but you slammed the door,
as if your love for me had turned to stone,
as if I am existing no more.
Perhaps, you will regret it when I’m gone
that circumstances forced yourself to clone
the hatred of this world - its cold mask,
to rip my heart, to kick it and discard.
And, I can guess, this must be very hard
for you to do this soul-draining task
in its unnaturalness – with your back to show
indifference and scorn to what you know -
your mother’s love and care, and to stain
your heart with guilt for future days to store
when I will be existing no more.
Perhaps, you cover up your throbbing pain
already with your stone-faced mask
when from yourself and from my love you run.
But when you fall, my trampled heart will ask:
‘Where does it hurt? Are you all right, son?’
13 September 2011
Перевод этого стиховорения имеется на
http://www.stihi.ru/2014/12/12/1117