He waits on the midday's windthe wave comes and lies down
wearilywith a fan every daythe old one makes the water smoothI
throw the stone for funthe water moves in circlesthe old one
looks sadly at meand swept it smooth againIn the white sand, the
old mantrembling, smokes his pipeonly the water and I knowwhy he
needs this fanThe idea sleeps like a volcanohesitating, I asked
him thenhis head bent, it seemed he slepthe said before he
diedThe water shall be your mirrorif it is smooth you will
seehow many fairy tales remain for youand you will plead for
your redemptionThe fan pressed against his bodythe hand stiffens
with rigor mortisthey had to break his fingersthe fan remains
back in the sandI call the old one every dayhe would like to
redeem meI remain back in the midday's windand I can read
in the fanThe water shall be your mirrorif it is smooth you will
seehow many fairy tales remain for youand you will plead for your
redemption
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