Franz Werfel (10 September 1890 – 26 August 1945 / Prague)
One Hour Ater The Dance Of Death
I lay in the abyss, where twisting squeezing
The lowest form of life pushed itself peristaltically.
Where slippery and slimy worm and eel entwined,
I was a worm myself, overwhelmed with exhaustion.
This lasted an eon before I succeeded,
And one of my senses could slowly lift itself up,
The sense of hearing. Listening, it scouted out if
The dancer, Death, had finally waltzed into the distance.
I eavesdrop breathless. Then a sparkling chromatic scale
Flows wanly from the open window next door.
Maybe Death is sitting there tuning his piano.
And while my life enjoys zestfully eating and fills with gas,
I feel him lean in that requisite little side room,
Where he invisibly reads, rustling the evening paper.
Comments about this poem (One Hour Ater The Dance Of Death by Franz Werfel )
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