I
“Hush-little-baby-in-wooden-cradle”
Hush-little-baby-in-cradles-of-fairy-tales
Hush-little-baby-in-cradles-of-words.
II
Rocking…
An extended hand rocks me in the cradle of silence
yet I do not know where it comes from.
In the cradle of obedience I lay down…
And so I hear a voice whispering to me
and it sounds as it’s my own:
Sleep my eyes, sleep.
The stars аre sleeping in cradles of clouds…
(and while in one swing hangs
a blind eye to everything
and in the other
the darkness with its old roots
through the grayish canvas of the fog
the light fades out.)
Sleep my eyes, sleep.
The waves are sleeping in cradles of winds…
(and while in one swing hangs
a deaf ear to everything
and in the other the song of the mermaids
through the thunders of the storms
the voices are silenced)
Sleep my thoughts, sleep.
The pain is sleeping in the cradle
of the words we want to hear…
And while in one swing hangs
the embroidered story full of enchantment
(always the same story)
and in the other the fear
(always the same fear)
through the rocking of the cradle
the awakening is buried.
And I sleep like an infant
hearing the mumbling of the lullaby it loves,
even though the voice that sings it sings it badly,
even though I don’t understand the words
I keep on sleeping
I keep on sleeping
you keep on sleeping…
and the sound of the cradle
at times fear, at times cold embrace
turns into a shade
a heavy shade that haunts me everywhere…
In cradles of words people are being rocked.
People are being rocked in cradles of words.
I am being rocked. I am being rocked. I am being rocked.
Ме лулаат. Ме лулаат. Ме лулаат.
But I am awake…
and everything that wakes up
is no longer the same.
EN 
MK