He groans. His head is hanging to one side, as if he lacks the energy to hold it straight. His face is darker than it was in the evening - reddish-blue, like a drowned man.
A poem is buzzing around my head. Fluttering souls ... what poem was that? Where did I hear that song?
In dem der Tod ist
Flatternd in seinen Fangen.
* * *
Words. Did the poet hear the fluttering of a soul in the claws of the Angel of Death? In his whole life, did he ever hear this terrible rattle? This awful groaning? Why are poets and writers allowed to write about things that they don’t know? Why are they allowed to celebrate war and death, the last terrible suffering of a poor, helpless creature?
Sellers of fake medicines and shopkeepers who use false weights are punished. Why is there no punishment for those who poison our souls with false words?
The room is filled with rasping breathing. For a moment it gets louder, like an airplane in a dive, and the next moment it stops entirely. In my shock I want to call the nurse, when the rusty, scratch-ing sound returns, ends in a long sigh, and starts again.
He breathes in salvos. An idiotic thought that goes through my head. The breathing of a dying man.
I can’t think any more. I have to listen to this noise, that sounds like the chirping of a cicada. Does a cicada have a soul? Poor, fluttering soul, that has had enough of life, but still doesn’t want to leave it.
Chchchrrrrh. Chchchrrrrh. Chchchrrrrh.