in the daydream of two-thousand years,
the men created fishhooks and lures,
rods and ropes,
hands cracking in the heat of day,
the hot sweat of their labor,
they would sit watching,
the still water tacked onto the horizon,
and they could only see the corners
and the sharp angles of time,
as they balanced Desire and Patience,
the two forces of a dancing swing
the allure of the fish swimming by,
if they could catch one, they thought,
She’d surely be pleased.

but Now She has awakened,
the rosy dawn stretching her limbs wide,
beyond the shadows of place and time,
the living waters gather in a whirl,
watching as she steps inside her craft,
the vessel that cannot be rowed by men,
but only obeys the flow of the sea
and the command of an invisible wind;
her hands white as the sea foam is light,
as he rests his weary head upon them,
and one by one the fish find their will
to fall into the comfort of their hands,
where all are surely pleased
in the age that no longer belongs to man.

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