We are islanders, under the scorching sun
Making a little living we call life
Fisherman who sow nets with their steel wrists
And pluck the harvests of the sea
Wrath are the merciless waves that bludgeon
And fight is the quaking heart bulldozing the monsters of brine.
We are all fisherman in life, we fish for the krill
And the tuna. The small and the large. Rupees and heart carats.
We are defined by our catch. Islanders
That have pleural cavities imbued with love
Of the 1st degree, lover, soul mate, accomplice
Sharing a meal of rice, dhal, sambal and some fish
Love is as fludish as the waves that come crashing
And the catamarans are our hearts moistened
By the love of many degrees, kith and kin.
The islander has no power over the storm
Yet possesses the will to steer to the eye. And the muscle
Of our forearms determine who we are…..
Warriors of the sea who will never crumble or wither
To forces of fate – the sun, storms and Poseidon.
And every man is an island. Love is our archipelago.