He waits on the midday's wind the wave comes and lays down faintly with a fan each day the old man makes the water smooth
I throw the stone for fun the water moves in a circle the old man looks at me sadly and it had swept 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 hesitantly, I then asked his head inclined, it seemed he slept he said before he died
The water shall be your mirror Only if it is smooth, you will see How many fairy tales still remain for you and you will plead for redemption
The fan pressed on 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 here I remain back in the midday's wind and I can read in the fan The water shall be your mirror Only if it is smooth, you will see How many fairy tales still remain for you and you will plead for redemption