The chatter in its original language can be found here

the adventures of a two-legged fly

he ventured into hellish thickets and saw that every devil was suffering from malaria, and every sinner frying in bubbling fat on an iron skillet was sick too, and swarms of mosquitoes filled the crimson sky. everyone was calm, honest, and united thanks to their sickness, and each one talked about what they had experienced yesterday, and each one was sick.

"do you want to be with us?!" they asked.

and he stepped into the stinking swamps, walking on small mounds, reaching out his hands, but not a single mosquito landed on his craving veins. and when he cried, diving into the noxious water, it parted before his tears, and every tree in hell removed its branches hanging over the path when he walked by. and when he extended his hand, the other would look away and hide their hands behind their backs. he prayed to the diseased for an embrace, and he prayed to the angels for the redemption of sins, but they shook their heads in response. and when he stepped onto the skillet, the oil turned to ice, and when he leaped into the fire burning under the cauldron where people boiled, he felt no pain, only the cold of the coals reminded his feet of where he was.

and they talked and talked, each one speaking of their own sickness and their own sin. when asked about his story, he couldn't say anything; his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and crawled down his throat. he wanted to stop breathing, but when he squeezed his neck, every pore of his body felt light.

they spat after him and hissed through clenched teeth: cursed, he sold his soul for his purity! cursed, he is not like us. what has he done to be even more repulsive than the endlessly hungry omnivorous insects?

he smeared his body with honey, but even that did not save him, and he threw himself to the ground. when he tried to scream, he lost his voice.

somewhere between the gnarled roots through the swamps of hell, a two-legged fly crawls, who once preferred an almost blooming flower to a horse's apple and, for that, was condemned to lose its wings and most of its legs.

singing moles of the sun in the dead darkness of the underground, they pay threefold.