Anatomy of Autumn

A pallid sky,above the world which is dying of its decripitude,may possibly find an excuse for fleeting with the clouds, or so many sighs huddled together: shreds of wornout sunsets are melting into a river that sleeps on a horizon steeped in water and light-rays. The trees are bored and ill at ease, and the tent of the Showman of Past Things rises beneath their whitened leaves, whitened not with the roads traversed, but with time-dust. Many a streetlamp is waiting for the twilight and reviving the faces of a wretched crowd,crushed by immortal sickness and immemorial sins- men alongside their sickly accomplices,who are pregnant with the miserable fruits that will destroy the earth. In the troubled silence of all the eyes entreating the faraway sun, which plunges beneath the water with a despairing cry,here is his basic sales-pitch:'No sign treats you to the show within, because no present day painter could supply even a sorry shadow of it. I am bringing you, alive some primordial innocent madness,some ecstasy of gold,I dont know what it is! Which she calls her hair,curves down with silken grace around a face lit up by the bloodstained nakedness of her lips. Instead of vain apparel,she has a body; and though her eyes are like precious gems, thay cannot match the gaze that comes from her blissful flesh: from breasts upraised as if they were full of an everlasting milk, their nipples towards the sky,to glistening legs still salty from the primeval sea. The husbands recalling their poor wives, bald, morbid, and filled with horror, surge forward:the latter too, melancholy wretches, are curious and want to see.