“I know for certain it is he, the one up above. But the little plants don’t see him, and they believe it is I who warms them and licks them all afternoon.” I – whose stem is hard, as you can see – I never answer them, not even with a nod of the head. It’s no deception on my part, but I let them deceive themselves, because they will never reach him, who would burn them in any case. As for me, on the other hand, they hardly even reach my feet. It’s a form of great servitude to be the sun. This turning towards the East and towards the sunset, constantly attending to his position, tires my neck, which is not so limber. And they, the little grasses, they continue to sing down there: “The sun has four hundred golden leaves, a great dark disc at the center, and a sovereign stem.” I hear them, but I offer them no confirming sign with my head. I keep quiet, but as for me. I know for certain it is he, the one up above.