Sailing Adrift From the Moon

Once upon a time, a fisherman asks,

in the midst of fishing at night, dusk abounds, alas,

the sea, why it recites its hymns to the

fluctuations of the moonlight, why it

turns down its volume at night.

Then, the waves went raging, and the fisherman

hanged onto his boat. He went sailing,

slashing back-and-forth, surreptitiously seeking

the sanctuary as he moves on the unforeseen

journey, on such quiet, perhaps too peaceful a night.

Pounded onto a pool of rocks, he found himself

ceasing, shuddering to only an immediate halt, and

he took a breathe to feel a relief — in his

abrupt journey. He is now afraid to ask the question

again, for he thought it was punishment from Poseidon himself.

The fear did not last long. The dark mist dissipates,

revealing the long-awaited moonshine. He stared

into the globular light; his empty-minded eyes

reveal how he knows everything is a staged voyage

in a bag of tricks — to fool people of its supposed exhilaration.

Then, fortuitously, the fish, shells, pure rocks of virtuous heritages

rush their ways into his near-torn fishing net, and

stayed there for as long as he gasped for air,

like a butterfly trying to escape the dust in daylight —

in the city where it lives in. Only now entrapped for a long time.

Then, the waves went raging, and the fisherman again

hanged onto his boat. He went sailing,

only now sailing slowly, adrift in stasis, and in

the sanctuary that was unforeseen in his narrow mind.

But tonight is all, perhaps, too peaceful a night;

So he didn’t question the serendipity,

and let go of his preys, in much of a hurry,

for he knows he is sailing adrift because of the moon.

And he signed a quick, albeit tender gratitude to the enlivened night.

Thereafter, his ardent question never plagued him again.