Волны

           Nowglancingthisside,thatside,theylookeddeeper,beneaththeflowers,downthedarkavenuesintotheunlitworldwheretheleafrotsandtheflowerhasfallen.Thenoneofthem,beautifullydarting,accuratelyalighting,spikedthesoft,monstrousbodyofthedefencelessworm,peckedagainandyetagain,andleftittofester.Downthereamongtherootswheretheflowersdecayed,gustsofdeadsmellswerewafted;dropsformedonthebloatedsidesofswollenthings.Theskinofrottenfruitbroke,andmatteroozedtoothicktorun.Yellowexcretionswereexudedbyslugs,andnowandagainanamorphousbodywithaheadateitherendswayedslowlyfromsidetoside.Thegold-eyedbirdsdartinginbetweentheleavesobservedthatpurulence,thatwetness,quizzically.Nowandthentheyplungedthetipsoftheirbeakssavagelyintothestickymixture.

           Now,too,therisingsuncameinatthewindow,touchingthered-edgedcurtain,andbegantobringoutcirclesandlines.Nowinthegrowinglightitswhitenesssettledintheplate;thebladecondenseditsgleam.Chairsandcupboardsloomedbehindsothatthougheachwasseparatetheyseemedinextricablyinvolved.Thelooking-glasswhiteneditspooluponthewall.Therealfloweronthewindow-sillwasattendedbyaphantomflower.Yetthephantomwaspartoftheflower,forwhenabudbrokefreethepalerflowerintheglassopenedabudtoo.

           Thewindrose.Thewavesdrummedontheshore,liketurbanedwarriors,liketurbanedmenwithpoisonedassegaiswho,whirlingtheirarmsonhigh,advanceuponthefeedingflocks,thewhitesheep.