On my back I carried the coffin in which my father lay. Bent low by its weight, I staggered forward step by step. My pace slowed, the burden was too great. It was beyond me. Carefully I lowered myself full-length to the ground, slid out from under the coffin, raised the lid without hesitating and whispered, Father, I can't carry you. I'm sorry. Could you maybe walk a little?
It took him a while to open his eyes. His face was unshaven, his hair tousled. He was wearing long johns and a white vest. Then he sighed and shook his head, mocking and pitying at once, like always. He sat up, climbed out of the coffin and moved on with calm steps. I walked along behind him and I too said nothing.
The coffin remained where it was, in the middle of the path.
We reached the grave, which was already dug. Without a word he settled down: lying on his side, then turning over to lie on the other side.
His god wants him to face east, I thought, towards Mecca. Fortunately he didn't ask me which way east was, because I didn't know.
He folded his hands together, slid them under his head as a pillow, sighed deeply again and closed his eyes, and I, I fell to my knees and began, with furious sweeps of my arms, to fill the grave.

Translation: David Colmer