The fishermen are coming
Down the fields of ripening grain
Hope clings on to the evening flowers
below the eaves of their seeping roofs.
Sad and cheerless they leave their hunger behind
tied to the grain
the green, distressed and pale
are shadowed by their dreams.
The naked, primordial host is coming
the fisherman
they do not leave history behind on the trail
for you can still hear the fish they carry
from the water sprinkled to keep them breathing
The fishermaen are making their way
through the ripening corn fields
golden, promising
When the sky suddenly raged
and then burnt out
throughout the dark, sooty day
they searched, they fished
stand on your foes to see them move
the fishermen are returning from the lakes
Now, in the half-light of evening
time, distreesed, out of joint
knits a net.
Translated by Pradip Acharya
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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