For as long as time relentlessly confers, through ripening, its duration, the apple will redden, fate sate itself on the sough of leaves, on wind blowing, on a thought's desiccated touch, and on the roundness and aroma of a proposition. One by one, like spots or a clock's ticks, drop the pears. The plum overflows with its juices. Bees drone, and a fly congregation drowns out my voice. The sun's glare penetrates, sweat drenches my eyes, and my shirt, like that of a man wounded in the chest, a consumptive's shirt or a confessor's, it fuses with my body, like a pair of Dioscuri.
Senility continues dispatching new regiments into battle, and abundance overflows.
A snake quietly slithers past. Augustus' month arches its Roman nose.