At the spout of the pump lies a trough,
at the spout of the pump a dead man rises.
Early dawn, with metal clanging,
the dead man wanders through the windmill’s shadow.
The pumping rod screeches.
The tail turns, clangs,
Its iron innards stir, turning the pumping, coughing wheel.
Who sits in its shining heart, driving the rod into the ground?