Sitting on a sunny spot, propping up his walking stick to the bench, the old man is quietly napping. His head swings down, then up, then down again, and his chin rests on his chest. He begins breathing evenly the rhythm of sleep.
The afternoon slightly moves; the sun too moves to hide in the crown of the trees. Shadows gently crawl onto the sleeper, tickling him into a dreaming smile. He is satisfied, possibly, with the training for death.
© Stefan Minchev
The text has won third place in short prose competition of LiterNet and Erunsmagazine (2007).