White Amanheceu

When the time of the harvest arrived, the father of Roxanne gave work to the youngster, with the approval of the captain. It was then it entire day around of the mill, naked torso, the well formed musculatura, a mythical Mediterranean god, shining of sweat. the heart of Roxanne beat and beat; if debated, also, between the desire and the composure. But one day, the captain called. The owner of lands increases the taxes. The order had to be fulfilled. They had left the field, the adventurers, all in flock, charging of all e, where it had resistance not rare, pillaging and wounding killing.

She was this, the life, in those times. The father of Roxanne resisted while he could; the adventurers had besieged polder and demanded enormous payments, that it never could make. When arriving autumn rains, when the wind blows fort and the sea is more angry than never, agitated and rebellious, the old one decided to breach the edges. – Nor we, nor they roared, so furious as the sea. The shovels of the mill had stopped, making force to turn; but to a great it blocked them rock. After two days, the edge was made marshy and all knew that it could not resist more. Roxanne was despaired. Gilles could not leave to join it the flock.

It had a contract, was not man to fail. it decided seguiz it. In the way it way for the encampment, capsizes suddenly a formidable water wall, an impressive wave, that it came of the sea, rolling, capsizing, blowing up, as an unexpected and violent punishment. They had been dragged together, without hope, salvation. But they were together. nothing more would obtain to separate them. The time passed; the storm lessened the edges had been reconstructed, always slowly, centimeter for centimeter; the sea again rejected. The spring always came back it return, and us we forget in them this. Polder reviveu. But the field was not green. White Amanheceu, cndido, with thousand of tulipas, whites as the snow, as the clothes and the face and the arms and the hands, of the desventurada Roxanne. This night the mill rests, turning slowly very slowly, its old shovels. He is tired, is old. But it always has, all night, a new history to count. >