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Poem

In the quiet embrace of twilight.... 

the night fisherman stands at the edge of eternity. 

His silhouette, etched against the horizon, merges with the fading hues of day. 

The sea, a vast canvas of indigo and obsidian, cradles his hopes and memories.

His fishing rod, an ancient wand, dances with purpose.

Each cast is a prayer to the moon, a plea for bounty from the depths. 

The waves, like whispered confidantes, lap at his ankles, 

sharing tales of lost ships, forgotten lovers, and the mysteries hidden beneath the surface.

The stars, celestial lanterns, guide his hands. 

He tugs gently, coaxing secrets from the abyss. 

Silver-scaled creatures emerge—a delicate ballet of survival and surrender. 

Their eyes, like polished stones, reflect the constellations above.

And there, in that liminal space between day and night, 

the night fisherman becomes a bridge. 

His heart, a compass, points toward the infinite. 

He gathers stardust in his palms, 

weaving it into stories for the moon to hear.

As the last ember of sunset fades, he casts again, 

releasing his dreams into the salt-kissed air. 

The sea inhales, exhales—a cosmic sigh. 

And the night fisherman, a solitary poet, 

continues his silent communion with the universe.

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