The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

I saw how complicated their movements were. The
wind might come from one direction, but they did not
bow obediently in the other. One spot was forever in
motion, another obstinately still. One pad would show
its underside, but the others would not imitate it. They
bowed sluggishly, painfully, to the left and right. Winds
that brushed the surfaces and winds that loitered
along the stems produced immense disorder. I was
beginning to find the evening breeze chilly.
Most of the pads were fresh at their centers but
eaten by rust at the edges. The decay seemed to
spread from the spots of rust. There had been no rain
for two days, and there were brown water stains at the
concave centers. Or dead maple leaves.
The sun was still bright, but from somewhere
darkness pressed in. We exchanged brief remarks.
Though our faces were near, it was as if we were
calling out to each other from far off in an inferno.
“What is that?” As if in fright, Momoko pointed to a
cluster at the foot of the hillock, a tangle of rich red
threads.
It was a cluster of shining spider lilies, a powerful
red.
“It’s closing time,” said the old attendant. “Hurry up,
please.”