Gone Fishing

We used to go fishing on Friday nights,
Nordbear my neighbor,  and I,
Nothing like sitting on a two thousand year old pier,
Built by King Herod, to please Augustus Caesar, the dear,
We were using young shrimps as bait, on our hooks,
(Not the type that you see, in the cooking books),
We would insert the fishing rods in special metal holders,
Those were stuck amongst the huge pier supporting boulders,
Each rod was equipped with a small but very noisy bell,
When a fish was biting it rang like hell,
Nordbear and I then unfolded our fishing chairs, as we sat,
I took out my pipe, lit it, pulled back my hat,
Looking at the Mediterranean Sea, waves rushing in,
One follows another, an ongoing crescendo, one ends – one begins,
Thus, we were sitting from evening, until the next morning,
Until the sun first rays of light, before the sun began its scorching,
Sometimes we end up with a sizeable catch, a nice dinner,
Sometimes we end up with nothing; the fish was the winner,
We never felt we lost or missed anything,  returning home empty handed,
After all, it was cleansing of the mind, the soul expanded,
It was I, the sea, the waves, the wind, and nature – as god intended,
Almost another dimension, a world frozen, universe suspended,
As for the fish that we took home for dinner, fried it, a little breaded,
Well for the fish it was a different story;  for the fish – it has all ended

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