October 29, 2015
October 23, 2015
Sanatorium of Silence
Most of them were always passing away in the Autumn. When they were dying, nurses were opening the windows, as if the soul did not know any other way, but only this one – through the old, cobwebbed sanatorium’s door-frame. Sometimes birds were bursting into the room through opened windows – dozens of them were sitting on white closets, entangled into the drips or were falling asleep amongst cold and matted patients’ arms. Birds are silent in that region. Their presence can be only displayed by the rustle of feathers and soft treading amongst souls passing through the windows.
October 22, 2015
Sanatorium of Silence
Most of them were always passing away in the Autumn. When they were dying, nurses were opening the windows, as if the soul did not know any other way, but only this one – through the old, cobwebbed sanatorium’s door-frame. Sometimes birds were bursting into the room through opened windows – dozens of them were sitting on white closets, entangled into the drips or were falling asleep amongst cold and matted patients’ arms. Birds are silent in that region. Their presence can be only displayed by the rustle of feathers and soft treading amongst souls passing through the windows.
***
Najwięcej odchodziło ich zawsze na jesień. Gdy umierali, pielęgniarki otwierały okna, jakby dusza nie znała innej drogi, jak tylko tę jedną – przez stare i zapajęczone futryny sanatorium. Zdarzało się, że przez otwarte okno wpadały na salę ptaki – dziesiątkami przesiadywały na białych szafkach, wikłały się w kroplówki albo zasypiały pośród zimnych i splątanych ramion pacjentów. Ptaki w tym rejonie są nieme. Ich obecność zdradzają jedynie szelesty piór i ciche stąpania pośród wychodzących przez okna dusz.
