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“Now they came, spectres in mourning, humbling themselves, ghosts, their eyes the only points of brightness. It was harrowing: a long cortege of shadows. This time silence had come flooding in. Not a sound, not a cry. A silence all the more sinister for being black. There is the white silence of the Beguines' workrooms; it is sweet. Here was a black silence that strikes terror to the heart, slipping past like water, as full of pitfalls as the night. At first all that could be made out was a tangle of crosses, all the raised arms of the crosses of a graveyard. All with their dead.” — Georges Rodenbach
Now they came, spectres in mourning, humbling themselves, ghosts, their eyes the only points of brightness. It was harrowing: a long cortege of shadows. This time silence had come flooding in. Not a sound, not a cry. A silence all the more sinister for being black. There is the white silence of the Beguines' workrooms; it is sweet. Here was a black silence that strikes terror to the heart, slipping past like water, as full of pitfalls as the night. At first all that could be made out was a tangle of crosses, all the raised arms of the crosses of a graveyard. All with their dead.