Farewell to life. 

This was the last view my grandfather probably saw before his short  jump into the river. What  was he thinking at that moment? Was he thinking  of his little daughter who was waiting  for him at home after school? He was standing on a small stone platform of the bridge, surrounded by his persecutors in black armed with clubs and guns,  who were waiting close to him.

Perhaps he looked  at the surrounding world for the last time in the morning fog, he looked for the last time at the close hills, he looked at his home far away along the river bank, at the  river, perhaps he remembered the past years of his youth, the women that he loved and lost, the solemn mystery of the approaching death,  probably he could also imagine the gloomy and oppressive silence of the  not-existence;  at the end he said good-bye to his life, and he waited in silence for the imminent end of his small world.  Soon many people gathered around him,  it seemed to him as if he could fly to the emptiness below; then the muddy waters flowing between the bridge pillars welcomed him without hurting him, without a cry.