The fisherman


There was once
this simple and hearty man
he didn't care much about things
but he cared about the people
and the fish
He lived in this small village
with simple people
and everybody knew him.
Everyday we would go into the ocean
and would return by the end of the day
In his small boat
A single basket
full of fish.
And this way he fed the village
and himself.
His hands were not soft skin
Nor moonlight pale
they were harshness
they were sun
they were salt and water

the fisherman didn't smile much
nor talk a lot
people used to speak of him
when he was gone
and by the end of the day
they would speak to him
and he would listen,
to every single one,
with care and tenderness

Every night
he would open one fish
carefully
tenderly
for it gave its life so he could have his
touching it softly
with his crude hands
And then,
when nobody else was on the beach
and there was just silence and night
stars and waves
he would go walk
his feet, touching the sand
still warm by the sun.
And he felt happy.

Day by day
His fish
and his people
And his heart was growing distant
And his days in the ocean started to become longer
and longer
and longer.
The sand his feet touched
was now cold

People started to wonder
And complain
For the fish was arriving too late
And a new man started to fish for the people.
Nobody ate his fish
anymore
Nor sit down by him
to ask for advice
But he still wandered
on the beach
under the dark sky
covered by stars.

One day
the fisherman left his home
he didn't take his net
he didn't take his basket
he just took his boat
and, along with the waves
he was gone.