THE WORM AND THE ANGLER
They (the fish) are not as intelligent as we who kill them; although they are more noble and more able.- Earnest Hemingway in 'Old Man and the Sea'.
When you picked me up from the dirt
I writhed and tried to wriggle out
For my life.
I felt the vile heart that throbbed
On the ugly fingers that held me-
It was dirtier than the dirt I lived in
Fouler than the fowl-beaks
I escaped till day
Crueler than the crow-beaks
That would feed on my flesh.
Not even in my dreams
Had I seen a hook
Much less, one that would impale me,
For, none who ascended the cross, nay, hook
Came back to tell the tale of the crooks.
Life is just another tale
By another name!
My slightly flesh
Would not your hunger sate
So I am here on the hook a bait
For the fish to come and bite.
I would attract only smaller fry
Bigger sharks need better baits.
The fish that would swallow me
And end up on your dining table
Knows quite well that
I do not belong to its waters
And its regular food
But never guess I am a bait
May not notice the hook, the line
And the vile hands holding control.
It would be too late
When the sharpness of the hook
Meets its flesh
And pulls it out
Of its own waters
Writhing, gasping for a wisp of air
In the abundant air
That would snatch its life away.
In the excruciating pain
And the suffocating full open air
It would definitely forget
To curse you, the line and the hook.
But the curse on me
Is for generations to come.
Its guts you remove
Would include my little flesh
May be still alive
Would feed the crows and the fowl.
But they would never know
My bleeding heart, life impaled
Your forked tongue
And crooked fangs.
Life is just another game
By another name!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem