He waits on the midday's wind
the [bad word] 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