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I don't know anymore how to write you words full of love.
I cannot write them anymore, neither gentle nor warm.
My pained heart, it withered away,
Later, it perhaps will heal when I silently take you in arm.
my hands are the same ones that once from death
tore you away at your sickest moment.
And like wings sheltered you from all afflictions.
Look my son – today is against you my hands work!
On my hands I carried you in the dark of night,
with them I dried your tears,
I rocked you in dreams, sunny as a fairy tale,
And on your forehead I made the protective sign of the cross.
And now – dear God, release me from the dreadful worry!
The fear, terrible, without bounds, shakes me like madness
When I follow my hands, black and agile
I think, perhaps...my son! – death is being fed with these hands.
How should I call you with words of love, alas!
When my own hands hold my heart in contempt?
To tear one’s heart out and one’s hands – that would be so easy,
For they are foreign to me and cause me pain.
Maria Rutkowska: To the Son
(for Irena Rupniewska, Klara Jezierska and other mothers)
Original language: Polish