The Trial

During his great speech the prosecutor kept piercing me with his yellow index finger I'm afraid I didn't appear self-assured unintentionally I put on a mask of fear and depravity like a rat caught in a trap an informer a fratricide the reporters were dancing a war dance slowly I burned at a stake of magnesia all of this took place in a small stifling room the floor creaked plaster fell from the ceiling I counted knots in the boards holes in the wall faces the faces were alike almost identical policemen the tribunal witnesses the audience they belonged to the party of those without any pity and even my defender smiling pleasantly was an honorary member of the firing squad in the first row sat an old fat woman dressed up as my mother with a theatrical gesture she raised a handkerchief to her dirty eyes but didn't cry it must have lasted a long time I don't know even how long the red blood of the sunset was rising in the gowns of the judges the real trial went on in my cells they certainly knew the verdict earlier after a short rebellion they capitulated and started to die one after the other I looked in amazement at my wax fingers I didn't speak the last word and yet for so many years I was composing the final speech to God to the court of the world to the conscience to the dead rather than the living roused to my feet by the guards I managed only to blink and then the room burst out in healthy laughter my atoptive mother laughed also the gavel banged and this really was the end but what happened after that – death by a noose or perhaps a punishment generously chained to a dungeon I’m afraid there is a third dark solution beyond the limits of time the senses and reason therefore when I wake I don't open my eyes I clench my fingers don't lift my head breathe lightly because truly I don't know how many minutes of air I still have left