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with a disfigured face like that of the forest-life at the end of spring...
The seth is going home like a thin river with weak flat
banks
having only a hope of meeting the
sea,
gliding in a distantly extending desert
kidnapper of greenery, full of mirages....
The seth is going home
like the mass of light, the sun, jumped from the east, then setting towards the west afraid of the coming darkness...
The condition of the seth is like the moon of a dark fortnight, like a poem devoid of the sentiment of peace,
like a morning devoid of the twitter of birds,
like a night devoid of the cool moon-shine,
354 Silent Soil
and,
like the forehead of a woman devoid of the small round mark
(bindi);
everything is looking still, desiring
