A
boy rides a bicycle before the first world war. He is eighteen,
almost
nineteen – a man, really – and wears his new uniform with
pride.
He is cycling along an embankment on the outskirts of a
small
town. The sun is halfway towards noon, the wind tousling his
light
brown hair; his pinkish lips are mouthing a music-hall ditty
under
his sparse moustache. He is going to see a girl he used to know.
He
has no idea he will be dead in a week, his legs thrown out the
wrong
way under a snarl of barbed wire. Now he marvels at the
warmth
of his muscles as the chain drives the wheels around.
Now
his tongue tastes of mint and apples.
Ohne den Tod läse sichs
so:
A
boy is cycling along an embankment on the outskirts of a
small
town. The sun is halfway towards noon, the wind tousling his
light
brown hair; his pinkish lips are mouthing a music-hall ditty
under
his sparse moustache. He is going to see a girl he used to know.
Now
he marvels at the warmth of his muscles as the chain drives the wheels around.
Now
his tongue tastes of mint and apples.
