The Fishes In The Sea Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

A ripe old age without infirmity
is just reward for those who would
trust in the innate wisdom of the age.
As islanders they happily subsist
on rather bland tradition from the fickle sea;
a bounty of exotic colours, wilful tastes,
produced by swirls and Condy's Crystal Gallery.

Great depths provide brief sanctuary for
all creatures fit enough and keen to flee
observed by saucer eyes and gentle blue-fin queens
sustainers of the privileged, the masters of the sea.

Oh yes, the trawler nets, relentless in their ways
only the lucky are equipped with clever eyes,
tough words like SUSHI make the rounds among the reefs
as cruel slaughter takes their inborn right to breathe.

A smile of sadness masks the mood of mahimati,
fat targets called Doradoes of the deep,
as tons of bycatch tossed for frigate birds to feed
on the horizon sheer depletion, fed by greed.

Eternal battle played by man to be sustained,
accepted by the Gods with laissez-faire.
Though we must wonder does the menu then contain
soup made from loggerheads and fins from murdered flake? *

So, do the Heavens catch for science handsome whales?
Who will stand up to point his finger at the waves?
It is not I your holy Majesty, not I.
I cannot slow the sillly masterminds of death.