"Mother"

Abstract

"Mother" Laza K. Lazarević Translated by Snežana Bogdanović I remember you! From that moment when my alive, but cold lips kissed your dead, though, still warm forehead, a lot was cut into my memory board, but your picture, your name were nowhere truncated. It was inscribed with different letters. And when a crazy hour comes and smashes my board, it seems to me, your name will still glow by virtue of its fiery letters. Who cares that I'll be gone as well? This worm, who will savor my meat, will remember you. Unknown, left, remote, you continued peacefully and quietly your turbulent and hard days. Is it my love solely that lifts you above all other women? Or were you really a heroine and a philosopher? Serbian mother, mother? Is the history of your life real? Is it true what I've seen and heard? Is it possible that everything is truth, that I've seen it all, and that you are dead and I'm alive? Oh, woman, you martyr, you saint! If you could only see with what piety I kneel before your image! If I could only make my brain create you right in front of me in hallucination! I don't care, the world would call me crazy— happiness is strictly my business! Here, I can still feel how your little dry hand enthrallingly tickles my neck—ah! How you gladly bend it around my neck! Why are you shivering, my soul, my life, life of my death! You were not shivering when hunger gnashed at you. You were not shivering when a mocking stranger pointed finger at you and your offspring, because you supported your family independently. You didn't even shiver the first night, when, far away from me and your loved ones, after the finished work, you kept your chin up, alone in the desert, you tucked your children in, extinguished the candle and looked into a vain, unknown, uncertain night! Yes! In those moments you thought about me. Right? And now, when I'm with you, now you're certain that we form the One, so now you don't entirely rely on yourself. Where are you taking me? Look! How the dusk descends in enchanting way. The Sava spreads quietly and caresses the island inside its skirt. Millions of voices can be heard from the island. They shiver and enchant so miraculously just like your little [End Page 179] dry hand around my neck. Don't you know who pours those millions of voices that your heart, I see, swims on? Hey, those are nightingales! Of course, oh soul, that she remembers you!... Oh, God, can't you hear? She tells you that you remember her as well! Oh my God! You sent my child to her—Glory to thee! She will take better care of him than I did. But, don't get angry with me for asking you one more thing: send them some of these nightingales! Do you have in that kingdom of yours more people who are so grateful and satisfied with almost nothing? Am I right when I tell that you are relieved, soul, when you see that I remember you? Can you see your tombstone? That is me, me! Look how big I am! Pyramids are like millet to me! Who else has such a huge tombstone? Which tombstone has such a huge grave? Alas! Here's a worm! Is he, oh, the horror! He dares? Is he the sanctity?! He-my brother! [End Page 180] Copyright © 2013 Serbian Studies