Волны

           Theyarelisteningtothegramophone;theyareeatingfruitoutofpaperbags.Theyaretossingtheskinsofbananas,whichthensinkeel-like,intotheriver.Alltheydoisbeautiful.Therearecruetsbehindthemandornaments;theirroomsarefullofoarsandoleographsbuttheyhaveturnedalltobeauty.Thatboatpassesunderthebridge.Anothercomes.Thenanother.ThatisPercival,loungingonthecushions,monolithic,ingiantrepose.No,itisonlyoneofhissatellites,imitatinghismonolithic,hisgiantrepose.Healoneisunconsciousoftheirtricks,andwhenhecatchesthematithebuffetsthemgood-humouredlywithablowofhispaw.They,too,havepassedunderthebridgethrough’thefountainsofthependanttrees’,throughitsfinestrokesofyellowandplumcolour.Thebreezestirs;thecurtainquivers;Iseebehindtheleavesthegrave,yeteternallyjoyousbuildings,whichseemporous,notgravid;light,thoughsetsoimmemoriallyontheancientturf.Nowbeginstoriseinmethefamiliarrhythm;wordsthathavelaindormantnowlift,nowtosstheircrests,andfallandrise,andfallandriseagain.Iamapoet,yes.SurelyIamagreatpoet.Boatsandyouthpassinganddistanttrees,"thefallingfountainsofthependanttrees".Iseeitall.Ifeelitall.Iaminspired.Myeyesfillwithtears.YetevenasIfeelthis,Ilashmyfrenzyhigherandhigher.Itfoams.Itbecomesartificial,insincere.