The dead man steps down from the scaffold. He holds his bloody head under his arm.
                    The apple trees are in flower. He's making his way to the village tavern with everybody watching. There, he takes a seat at one of the tables and orders two beers, one for him and one for his head. My mother wipes her hands on her apron and serves him.
                    It's so quiet in the world. One can hear the old river, which in its confusion sometimes forgets and flows backwards.