A Fisherman

A linear road of sequences is no life

We go up and down, left and right


He would always say, “beware of the tide”

Coming from the sea, bringing traces of night

The night of storms and survival fights

And the morning air he would breathe, satisfied


On the paper he would read endless tragedies

No, he would not be curious and leave

The city is the dwelling of hundreds of chameleons

Who have lost their genuine colors


He would not be far from home

But even here, life is no soft

Convenient is sitting on a tree log

But the time doesn’t linger for long


He has to adapt to the burning sun

A fisherman has to know how to read stars

To predict fate through the clouds and the sky

So when the tide hits, he’d know how to jump

Alone, he survives and fights through the dark


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