Hush, little baby
Don't complain, it's too late
Your bed is already set
With a blanket made of stars.
Pillows are filled with feathers
Mattress made of clouds
Sheets are pure satin
Dreams made of hope.
Cry, little baby
It's time to wake up
Feel the nails of your cradle
And the cover of broken glass.
Your head lies on lies
And your body twist in pain
Hear the comfort of this lullaby
While your tears roll down in vain.
Ananda, what a bitter sweet lullaby. Beautifully written from someone very sensitive to what goes on around them. Top marks from me and thanks for sharing it my friend. David
So sad. Your poem screams out empathy for the unfortunate unable to make choices of their own or better their own circumstances. I don't know if this represents more than its precise words but it seems to say much more to me between the lines.
I've read a few of your poems tonight but this one made me want to comment. I found the cruelty of it to be quite interesting. The glass in the crib and other images of pain. I think the speaker here is damaged. I mean, she notices the glass and the nails and yet s(he?) is just singing/speaking to the baby telling it 'Don't complain, it's too late.'
Your words, sitting and waiting to be picked out. You put them in the right order and they make complete sense in a poetic manner. Great-more than great job- M.M.- a.k.a.
This is just a hurtfully beautiful poem. There's a honest darkness to it that I can't help but love. Great work /Agnes
You are not afraid to confront the darkness.. it takes strength and courage to see things so clearly. There are many levels of meaning here.
The poor and needed do the best they can for their children, but it does not mean they love their children less...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
beautiful and nice.. really you have your lovely ways with your words.. koop up the work.. yours hazem