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