(Old Man) He waits on the midday's wind the wave comes and lies down wearily with a fan every day the old one makes the water smooth I throw the stone for fun the water moves in circles the old one looks sadly at me and swept it smooth again In the white sand, the old man trembling, smokes his pipe only the water and I know why he needs this fan The idea sleeps like a volcano hesitating, I asked him then his head bent, it seemed he slept he said before he died The water shall be your mirror if it is smooth you will see how many fairy tales remain for you and you will plead for your redemption The fan pressed against his body the hand stiffens with rigor mortis they had to break his fingers the fan remains back in the sand I call the old one every day he would like to redeem me I remain back in the midday's wind and I can read in the fan The water shall be your mirror if it is smooth you will see how many fairy tales remain for you and you will plead for your redemption
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