Fisherman's intro, from "The Floral War."
FISHERMAN
Well well, what have we here? Some field of view:
The turquoise circle of the dazzling sea
Blazes her setting of bright-banded sands,
Where on this first, chill morning of the year,
Our sun arises to peruse his course,
And I, to tease my living from the deeps.
Come, gilded fishes, hither to my net,
You shimmering schools of perch, soft octopi,
White-shingled shad, and jade-scaled terrapins,
Plump, krill-fed dwellers of the pickling brine,
Come now to me. To pray you have no fear
Would shuffle with the truth, as I intend
To angle for your lives, yet spoil me,
For I who come to act unneighbourly
Am poor, and strapped, and only bother you
Compelled by leaky-seamed necessity.
I have my wife’s own hatchery at home,
And you, my friends, must make their maintenance.
So, rush my meshes and forgive my faults.
Whoa there! What vision’s this? Green goddess, say,
What monstrous marvels wander on your face?
This cannot be! I am awake, and sane,
Yet seem to see a wading range of hills,
A chain of dizzy-peaked and scraggy steeps
Whose groundworks bob like buoys in the surf.
Yet now this restless reef flows closer still,
Resolving as spray-freighted citadels,
Wave-buttressed towers romping on the breakers,
Their canvas banners snapping at the breeze,
Whose men wing down from ropes to pace the decks,
And screen their eyes as if to locate me.
I’ll hustle to my chieftains with this news,
And let their cry of ominous novelty
Alert each ear from here to Mexico.
My life thus far was bright and fancy-free.
Oh, why must change then come to quiet me? Exit.
Oct 3, 2016
Oct 3, 2016 at 11:43 PM UTC
Fisherman's intro, from "The Floral War."
FISHERMAN
Well well, what have we here? Some field of view:
The turquoise circle of the dazzling sea
Blazes her setting of bright-banded sands,
Where on this first, chill morning of the year,
Our sun arises to peruse his course,
And I, to tease my living from the deeps.
Come, gilded fishes, hither to my net,
You shimmering schools of perch, soft octopi,
White-shingled shad, and jade-scaled terrapins,
Plump, krill-fed dwellers of the pickling brine,
Come now to me. To pray you have no fear
Would shuffle with the truth, as I intend
To angle for your lives, yet spoil me,
For I who come to act unneighbourly
Am poor, and strapped, and only bother you
Compelled by leaky-seamed necessity.
I have my wife’s own hatchery at home,
And you, my friends, must make their maintenance.
So, rush my meshes and forgive my faults.
Whoa there! What vision’s this? Green goddess, say,
What monstrous marvels wander on your face?
This cannot be! I am awake, and sane,
Yet seem to see a wading range of hills,
A chain of dizzy-peaked and scraggy steeps
Whose groundworks bob like buoys in the surf.
Yet now this restless reef flows closer still,
Resolving as spray-freighted citadels,
Wave-buttressed towers romping on the breakers,
Their canvas banners snapping at the breeze,
Whose men wing down from ropes to pace the decks,
And screen their eyes as if to locate me.
I’ll hustle to my chieftains with this news,
And let their cry of ominous novelty
Alert each ear from here to Mexico.
My life thus far was bright and fancy-free.
Oh, why must change then come to quiet me? Exit.
