The Teacher

Written by: Nikola Žilic

I told my son, that steaming night about wars and death, it seemed right,
recalled the fears, that steaming night, his interest yet seemed slight.
And I knew my son, a silent child, he never cried when in sight,
but in his soul a seed was placed, as his father sadly gazed.
I had drinks, I always do, he was tired that I knew,
but listened still for knowledge sounds,
to his ears a way it found.
My mouth, it judged the human life, as drinks got many on that night,
my son grew weary, my mind turned blind as days I cursed to be all blight.
The heat it plundered down on us, just as sadness to one does,
just as words of deep trust make their way to be unjust. 
Teaching bad I taught him hate, I said all humans play a game,
I said there is no such thing as faith, that life just bates you to more hate. 
I said that love just makes one weak, that on the street you’re on your feet,
I cursed all good and called it fake, always to promise even if he brakes.
Friendships? I laughed, as he glanced, a little lost his eyes they danced,
don’t be foolish I recall, fools help fools speed up their fall. 
He shook his head and watched me waste, every second of my days,
he had no taste in words I praised but on such nights he liked to stay,
I poured another drink at last, my son asked why and it was just,
his father’s words they seemed to bask in drunken pity for his past.
I claimed all wisdom of this earth, got hurt deeply before his birth,
I claimed all knowing in my drinks, without regards to what he thinks,
but I hoped real hard that he would see, how men can crawl without their deeds,
how their stupid earthly needs made them bitter earthly beasts.
Make my son a desert rose, a cheerful lad wherever he goes,
always to remind him right, to keep my picture in his sight.
That under this great black sky there are fathers who ask why,
sons can’t see and don’t try, that life is hard and then you die.
Fathers hope they’ll be the teachers, not just empty foul word preachers,
sons they hope that fathers tried, sons they hope that fathers lied,
sons they beg that beneath such hate, there is gallantry at stake.
I guess my son will never know, was I this bad or just a show,
My son grew tired that one night of my empty world insight,
we thought many thoughts alike, many things I liked he liked,
but my words they caused distress, confirmed dreadful emptiness,
hence I found that it takes less to blaze up fear into ones chest.
A sight so sad and without right, a mind in fear one without fright,
From the ceiling blinding light, in the bathroom that one night,
My son a past, words lost in cries, knowledge’s a judge no one buys.
On the ground a note I found: 
Dearest father I just drowned, 
all the sadness you have dealt,
the breathless hate that I have felt
into death that slowly crept,
through the person I have met,
to be my father who was dead,
more than death could make one dead.