(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.
