There is nothing to be afraid of,
　　it is only the wind
　　changing to the east, it is only
　　your father the thunder
　　your mother the rain
　　
　　In this country of water
　　with its beige moon damp as a mushroom,
　　its drowned stumps and long birds
　　that swim, where the moss grows
　　on all sides of the trees
　　and your shadow is not your shadow
　　but your reflection,
　　
　　your true parents disappear
　　when the curtain covers your door.
　　We are the others,
　　the ones from under the lake
　　who stand silently beside your bed
　　with our heads of darkness.
　　We have come to cover you
　　with red wool,
　　with our tears and distant whipers.
　　
　　You rock in the rain's arms
　　the chilly ark of your sleep,
　　while we wait, your night
　　father and mother
　　with our cold hands and dead flashlight,
　　knowing we are only
　　the wavering shadows thrown
　　by one candle, in this echo
　　you will hear twenty years later.