"In the stream, coursing in veins between the forest
pickets, stood a great hart. Silent as it went, easy like his gait against
the vague shores, he collected nourishment of wildly abundant humus,
which was found among the strangest cell configurations, trees, undergrowth,
animals lifted aloft toward the sun. The stillness all around was eerie and
stuck in your ear. A rich smack, a gurgle under the clay shore’s shaggy curtain,
the slurp of suspicious caves, which now and then occurred like
detonations about the woven stream, bore witness to the constant monotony of the
process. Out of the forest itself came a crackling rhythm. There the great Pan
still prowled.”
from Tropen by Robert Müller
(translated by the Internet + Me)
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