My mother used to hit her stomach –
Vehemently, to deaden the pain.
“This baby – Oh! – shouldn’t be born” –
Cried with in her eyes a rain.
She tried to jump out of the window –
“Even if where I die is Africa…
I just wished a better life, but instead…”
I wish she would have had the stamina.
Then, in Hungary – back again –
Where I got conceived,
She did a try to sink me all by love –
The best love I’ve ever received.
My mother had known the mistake –
In getting me born here.
My mother had known the truth –
Before, before me.
She knew the vice of my birth,
Much better than Islam.
It’s not about being a bastard,
But being itself’s a harm.
Then, she tried to correct –
Raising me up with empty purse.
But all her lovely toil was hers,
Cuz I defined already life as a curse.
My mother could save the world-
Of many, letting it clean.
If the first hit on her stomach
Had been a bit more keen.
She loved me, tho. As others did, too-
But that love is sinful and wild.
Cuz there’s no place among livings
For a lifeless, cursed child.
Then, redeeming is coming-
Even if it’s not in form of holy spirits.
Death is free for everybody,
But a treasure for the one who merits.