back into the silence / tilbage ind i stilheden - prose poem

“It's free to die in Poland so I'll go back there,” he said while walking a disused rail-road track in a largely disused part of a country largely populated by people no one had any use for. She said his eyes were dark green when he was sad and bright green when he saw a piano and almost black and inquisitive when he was dying. “But who can you ask?” she asked rhetorically. The dried out little fig tree in the corner stayed silent as did the umbrella and the worn boots. She drew a sad face in the dust between the cups, books, bottles and ashtrays and whistled one of his unwhistleable melodies. “He always said that his music wouldn't work without the images.”

“Det er gratis at dø i Polen, så jeg tager tilbage dertil,” sagde han, mens han gik langs et nedlagt jernbanespor i et en stort set nedlagt del af et land, der hovedsageligt var befolket af mennesker, ingen havde brug for. Hun sagde, at hans øjne var mørkegrønne, når han var ked af det og lysegrønne, når han så et flygel og næsten sorte og spørgende, da han var ved at dø. ”Men hvem kan man spørge?” spurgte hun retorisk. Det tørre lille figentræ i hjørnet forblev tavst, ligesom paraplyen og de udtrådte støvler. Hun tegnede et trist ansigt i støvet mellem kopperne, bøgerne, flaskerne og askebægerne og fløjtede én af hans ufløjtelige melodier. ”Han sagde altid, at hans musik ikke ville fungere uden billederne.