Remember the site we saw,my soul,that fine,mild,summer morning:round a turning in the path a disgusting carcass on a bed scattered with stones.Its legs in the air like a woman on heat.,burning and sweating poisons,was displaying,in casual and shameless fashion,its belly,full of noxious vapours.The sun was shining on that mass of rotteness as if to cook it to perfection,and to give back a hundredfold to great nature all that she had joined together;And heaven watched the splendid carcass unfolding like a flower.The stench was so strong that you thought you would faint right there,on the grass.The flies were buzzing on that putrid belly,from which issued black battalions of larvae,flowing like a thick liquid along those living rags.The whole mass fell and rose like a wave,or erupted in sparkling foam;you would have said that the body,filled with some mysterious breath,was living and multiplying.And this world was emitting a strange music,like running water and wind,or a grain which a winnower with a rhythmic movement shakes and turns in his winnowing -basket.The shapes were fading and were now only a dream,a sketch slow to take shape on the forgotten canvas,which the artist completes only in his memory.Behind the rocks a restless bitch was watching us with restless eyes,waiting for the moment to reclaim from the skeleton the titbit she had left behind.
Charles Baudelaire.
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