He huddles in a shadow and in winter in the cold.
When the wind blows he shakes a little flame at the end of his
fingers and signals among the trees. He is an old man;
no doubt he has always been one and bad weather doesn’t
make him die. He goes down into the plain when evening
falls; during the day he stays halfway up the hill hidden
in some wood from which he has never been seen to
emerge. His little light trembles on the horizon like a
star as soon as night falls. Sunlight and noise frighten
him; he hides waiting for the shorter and silent days of
autumn, under the lowering sky, in the gray and gentle
atmosphere where he can trot, with bent back, without
being heard. He is the old man of winter who never dies.