"How are legendary islands buried underneath tsunamis -"
The weathered, wrinkled fisher guts a halibut as he muses -
"Seldom mourned, when noble isles seized by callous armies
Dog our minds, we martyred folk driven from a martyred land?"
This is what the aged fisherman strives to understand.
He is hauling in today's last catch, dwarfed by the sour dusk,
When a glossy frog leaps sideways from the roughly drawn-in net,
Seeing the fisherman, no doubt, as a behemoth, some threat.
This fleeing frog reminds the fisher what it was to be a coward:
The gentleness and peace that the warmonger abuses,
How his people left their country when invading generals loured.
Forty-seven years in exile, in this strange, bewitched estate,
With the meek calm of the newcomer; and in this calm he drowned
His true feeling, which he now knows: rotting, septic hate.
To the west, a guitar snarls an angry, grinding sound,
And now here comes the twilight, as night's hustling shadows grow.
Is it the fisher or the blackness that screams a defiant "No!"?
"I will not live my life displaced, a thin, discarded husk.
I won't accept - I can't accept - my land does not live on."
And in the rebellious darkness, he shouts his country's name.
"However evil rapists rape, inside nothing's gone -"
He puts aside the herring and reels in his rod -
"I'll lead a valiant army, our nation to reclaim:
My anger's my messiah; my kingdom is my god."