The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

surface.
Five o’clock.
The white of the waves become for an instant the
color of a yellow rose, to tell that evening approached.
He saw two black tankers, large and small, making
for sea to the left. The fifteen-hundred-ton Okitamamaru,
which had left Shimizu at four twenty, and the
three-hundred-ton Nisshō-maru, at four twenty-three.
They were like mirages in the mist. Not even their
wakes were distinct.
He lowered the lens to the shore.
As they took on the color of evening, the waves
were stern and hard. The light had more and more the
color of evil, the bellies of the waves were uglier.
Yes. The waves as they broke were a manifest
vision of death. It seemed to him that they had to be.
They were mouths agape at the moment of death.
Gasping in agony, they trailed numberless threads
of saliva. Earth purple in the twilight became a livid
mouth.
Into the gaping mouth of the sea plunged death.
Showing death nakedly time and time again, the sea
was like a constabulary. It swiftly disposed of the
bodies, hiding them from the public gaze.
Tōru’s telescope caught something it should not
have.