The enclosed, self-possessed one spreads his wings across the lake, beak pointing downwards, eyes searching out the bright movement of water serpents and green flies.
How he wishes for his victims to be sad when he pounces on them from above, but they are mute and merry,
merry in the mirthful water:
This is what makes him sad,
what saddens the mute flamingo, as he continues to pounce,
generation after generation, upon the mute gaiety of the water.