A barren land, bare waste.
Vulcanic lake, the dead sea: no fish, weedless, sunk deep in the earth.
No wind could lift those waves, grey metal, poisonous foggy waters.
Forms more frequent,
white shapes thronged amid the trees,
white forms and fragments streaming by mutely,
sustaining vain gestures on the air.
Across the sands of all the world,
followed by the sun's flaming sword,
to the west,
trekking to evening lands.