There is a little bird singing outside my window. I
stretch my arms and luxuriate in the song. I love birdsong, but I hear
it seldom here in the midst of these great gloomy woods in this alien
land.
The bird reminds me it's summer again, the wheel of time rolled round, and the air is soft and warm. I must try and make sure that bird comes back. I rise, pushing back the bedclothes, and walk naked to the side table where half a loaf of bread still sits. The bread is getting hard and stale. I break off a piece, crumble it in my fingers, and drop it through the window. The earth outside is bare and brown, and the white crumbs are easy to see. I wait but the bird doesn't appear. It's a pity. I crumble some more bread and throw it outside, and then go in to wash and dress.
I miss music too. Yes, I have the radio, but I need music I can listen to, music that thrills through my blood. I'm missing music more than ever today, because of the bird. All right. Maybe some of them might have music in them. Why not? It takes all sorts. I'll try and find out this evening, after work.
The photo of my wife is beginning to curl at the margins and two corners are split. I could have it mounted, of course, but it isn't the same if she's under glass. I want to feel her embrace again, lie with her and make love in the moonlight. Ah, dreams!
There's a spot on my uniform under my right breast. It bothers me somehow, that little brown stain, and puts me in a foul humour, just like the stale bread and the bird that didn't fly down to peck at it for me. I breathe deeply, think of my wife's dear sweet face, and let the calm flow back into me.
I check myself in the mirror, carefully adjust my uniform cap, and stride out into the early morning sunshine. The sentries snap to attention as I pass. I look good, yes I do, despite the spot, and it's a lovely day, and I've got duty down at the Appel ground. We've new arrivals, yes, a new batch of the Judenschwein, and I'm to decide today who's to live and who's to die.
That should be entertaining.
Copyright B Purkayastha 2008
The bird reminds me it's summer again, the wheel of time rolled round, and the air is soft and warm. I must try and make sure that bird comes back. I rise, pushing back the bedclothes, and walk naked to the side table where half a loaf of bread still sits. The bread is getting hard and stale. I break off a piece, crumble it in my fingers, and drop it through the window. The earth outside is bare and brown, and the white crumbs are easy to see. I wait but the bird doesn't appear. It's a pity. I crumble some more bread and throw it outside, and then go in to wash and dress.
I miss music too. Yes, I have the radio, but I need music I can listen to, music that thrills through my blood. I'm missing music more than ever today, because of the bird. All right. Maybe some of them might have music in them. Why not? It takes all sorts. I'll try and find out this evening, after work.
The photo of my wife is beginning to curl at the margins and two corners are split. I could have it mounted, of course, but it isn't the same if she's under glass. I want to feel her embrace again, lie with her and make love in the moonlight. Ah, dreams!
There's a spot on my uniform under my right breast. It bothers me somehow, that little brown stain, and puts me in a foul humour, just like the stale bread and the bird that didn't fly down to peck at it for me. I breathe deeply, think of my wife's dear sweet face, and let the calm flow back into me.
I check myself in the mirror, carefully adjust my uniform cap, and stride out into the early morning sunshine. The sentries snap to attention as I pass. I look good, yes I do, despite the spot, and it's a lovely day, and I've got duty down at the Appel ground. We've new arrivals, yes, a new batch of the Judenschwein, and I'm to decide today who's to live and who's to die.
That should be entertaining.
Copyright B Purkayastha 2008
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