I lay in the abyss, where twisting squeezing <br />The lowest form of life pushed itself peristaltically. <br />Where slippery and slimy worm and eel entwined, <br />I was a worm myself, overwhelmed with exhaustion. <br /> <br />This lasted an eon before I succeeded, <br />And one of my senses could slowly lift itself up, <br />The sense of hearing. Listening, it scouted out if <br />The dancer, Death, had finally waltzed into the distance. <br /> <br />I eavesdrop breathless. Then a sparkling chromatic scale <br />Flows wanly from the open window next door. <br />Maybe Death is sitting there tuning his piano. <br /> <br />And while my life enjoys zestfully eating and fills with gas, <br />I feel him lean in that requisite little side room, <br />Where he invisibly reads, rustling the evening paper.<br /><br />Franz Werfel<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/one-hour-ater-the-dance-of-death/
