translation

Karel Cispic:
A chuckle died in his throat as he realized fully what he was about to do. Shovel after shovel of dried dirt flew in back of him until the magic moment when he hit wood. He could tell by the solid thudding sound that metal made against wood. It was a satisfying sound. An organic sound. Thud, thump. Thump, thump. He used the blade of the shovel to pry open the casket. No smell came out, but the sight was not a pleasant one. Pavel’s emaciated and very dead face had a rictus grin that sent a fright up Karel’s spine. The dead poet seemed to be smiling at him.