Wounds are staunched; they have finished.

Only the earth and the stones bleed.
And just then I saw, under the trickling morning, some half-open but still tepid dead that steamed, as if they were the blackening rubbish-heap of a village.

I watch that hovering dead breath of the dead.

The crows are eddying round the naked flesh with their flapping banners and their war-cries.

I see one which has found some shining rubies on the black vein-stone of a foot; and one which noisily draws near to a mouth, as if called by it.