WEBVTT

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This one has no title.

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Fish are the soul of delight.

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You can never be better
than your father.

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The knuckles the face
makes bring you up short

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in the water.

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Did you come here to drown?

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The flowers would eat
anyone if it meant a living.

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Spring the locks.

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Loosen the belts
down from the roof.

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The borscht is getting colder,
and my father is getting older.

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Late father is getting older.

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One wants the song from mother
since what we eat we are.

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Mother, it's me, calling from
under the water for a hot meal

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and memory's candle.

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For fish, feather,
fowl, and man.

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For a stone that would reach me.