El Pescador
Pedro Guerra
The Fisherman
The dock is silent, a gentle wind rocks the sea
the fisherman prepares the bait and tightens the fishing line
he fixes his eyes on the waves and entertains himself in the sway
the orange skin of dawn bathes in the sunrise
the dock is silent and caressed by the salt
the fisherman reviews the time and tightens the thinking line
he fixes his eyes on the waves, his mind creaks like a train
the incontinence of the hours takes him out of the sunrise
he never knows what awaits beyond the blue vastness
maybe a love song
maybe a pirate story
maybe the memory of a pain
maybe the illusion of God
maybe a sound of bells
maybe a message, a prayer
maybe it's the big bad wolf
a ladder of words
the slight streak of a tremor
maybe just a glow
the dry cry of anger
maybe a dream of passion
the dock is silent and the sun peeks from the sea
the man looks at his reflection in the crystal cove
he fixes his eyes on the waves and gets ready to gather
what he has caught in these hours, what he has learned, and what he is
he never knows what awaits beyond the blue vastness
maybe a love song
maybe a pirate story
maybe the memory of a pain
maybe the illusion of God
maybe a sound of bells
maybe a message, a prayer
maybe it's the big bad wolf
a ladder of words
the slight streak of a tremor
maybe just a glow
the dry cry of anger
maybe a dream of passion
