this is its more certain name. They know that it is not fighting that it is obtained to earn. The wind is captivated by this soft, sensual caress; it is gotten passionate and it asked for to be there liveing. But soon the encantamento if undoes, the shovels goes turning and the wind slides for is of the cloth, leaves lamenting its disillusion and if it loses in the plain, to the perpetual search of one another one, improbable shelter. The people of created there, with patience the persistence, long edges, that had withheld the sea and had created new fields. But the sea is capricious and wild; tries the time all, in a repeated battle and without end, to reconquer the space that they had stolen to it. In polders that thus these fields are called miracle – the mills are immense giants, protect that and guarantee them its life. The turn of its shovels, incessant when it has only one has exactly taken spring breeze, puts into motion bombs primitive, that return to the sea the time all the invading waters.
If they stopped, the battle would be lost; because the sea, always to the watch, would violate the borders and would retake what he is its. The old mills work slowly removing water, kneading supreme and counting old histories. When we liveed there, all the nights we heard a different history. As this: It was the year of 1650; it appeared for those bands a group of happiness soldiers; they were strong and briguentos men and they became vacant for the Europe to the search of one gentleman which to serve. They used you to extend its lands, to fortify its domnios, to charge the taxes and to keep the peace between the vassal peasants. In the mill Roxanne liveed, Age an adolescent of long blond braids, great and blue eyes, who lived white of flour, therefore worked, as well as the entire family, in the milling.