I have sailed the inbound sea. I have led a nomad's life, wandering with the great shoals; sleeping under Orion's light, singing the liquid song of my loss and my regret. For the sake of my brothers, I keep my mind from wandering to that dying horizon, where my lover awaits with the comfort of dusk.
The dunes afford no future. For my brothers and I are fishers of the sea. We have turned our blistered backs from the lie of the land. Far from the delicate embrace of women. Denied the saving grace of a child's cry. But we are sons of the sea. Children of the sand. And the ocean calls our name.
My possessions are few. A driftwood hut to shelter from the sky. A clay pot to cook my daily meal of rice and fish. A covering cloth to protect me from the fevers of morning and midday. And the tools of my trade. The cloaking net to imprison. The rusting knife to impair.
I entertain the cavorting egrets and the whispering winds. Dune water refreshes me, and saltwater goads my skin. But the pulse is strong within our hearts. From dusk until dawn, we will fight the sea. Until the waves surrender, and she delivers her bounty into our weathered hands. And we will grow old with our struggles. The sea will bend our backs. Broken like the great heads of the reef. Eroded like the jewelled cliffs of the abyss. As the waters recede and the debris of the ravaged sea washes in with the tide - there we will be, like so many empty shells and lost coral memories.
But now the tide favours us. And we set sail towards the night. I cast my net in this dreaming ocean, feeling the cool brine washing my dark hands; watching the fisherman's moon rise over me.
(In remembrance of Sri Lanka's southern coast fishermen, whom I spent some memorable days with, many moons ago...)
The dunes afford no future. For my brothers and I are fishers of the sea. We have turned our blistered backs from the lie of the land. Far from the delicate embrace of women. Denied the saving grace of a child's cry. But we are sons of the sea. Children of the sand. And the ocean calls our name.
My possessions are few. A driftwood hut to shelter from the sky. A clay pot to cook my daily meal of rice and fish. A covering cloth to protect me from the fevers of morning and midday. And the tools of my trade. The cloaking net to imprison. The rusting knife to impair.
I entertain the cavorting egrets and the whispering winds. Dune water refreshes me, and saltwater goads my skin. But the pulse is strong within our hearts. From dusk until dawn, we will fight the sea. Until the waves surrender, and she delivers her bounty into our weathered hands. And we will grow old with our struggles. The sea will bend our backs. Broken like the great heads of the reef. Eroded like the jewelled cliffs of the abyss. As the waters recede and the debris of the ravaged sea washes in with the tide - there we will be, like so many empty shells and lost coral memories.
But now the tide favours us. And we set sail towards the night. I cast my net in this dreaming ocean, feeling the cool brine washing my dark hands; watching the fisherman's moon rise over me.
(In remembrance of Sri Lanka's southern coast fishermen, whom I spent some memorable days with, many moons ago...)
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