First Movement

Water, sea, wave.

That was new. Different, but similar to something he couldn't define. Big, long, still.

Everyday the sea brought something. Sometimes from the air, sometimes from soil. But that belonged to nowhere.

Something coloured like the mountains in the sky was all around New. And

New was coloured like... him. And New had long endings, which had tools like his own.

Turning New around, he took its tools with his own. They fitted perfectly.

But New was cold. He extended New in dry sand and stood up.

The fresh morning sun made a shadow on the beach.

The shadow looked a little like New.

New, was almost him.

Primeiro movimento

Água, mar, onda.

Aquilo era novo. Diferente, mas semelhante a algo que ele não sabia o que era. Grande, comprido, inerte.

Todo dia o mar trazia algo. Às vezes era do ar, às vezes da terra. Mas aquilo não era de lugar nenhum.

Uma coisa da cor das montanhas no céu envolvia o Novo. E o Novo era da cor... dele. E o Novo tinha extremidades longas, que terminavam em ferramentas como as dele.

Virando o Novo, ele pegou as ferramentas com as dele. Encaixavam com perfeição.

Mas o Novo era frio. Estendeu o Novo na areia seca e se levantou.

O sol da manhã lançou uma sombra na praia.

A sombra parecia um pouco com o Novo.

O Novo, era quase ele.