An Acehnese fisherman returns
The old town called him with a tune
He is a fisherman son of a fisherman, grandson of the ancient
The eastern exotic, which is now forgotten
A ferry exits from the pier, it goes to the blue line across
There read a declaration of greatness, a pseudo in a dream
For the lantana camara still grows wild on the edge of a canal,
though colorful balls adorn the side of a road
A dock equipped with a dockyard, the irons are getting rusty
But people are still throwing their hooks from the top of a bridge
The hooks are caught in the power lines
The hookers can do nothing but throw again
Small restaurants are built at the end of the ground
waiting for visitors to be welcomed with friendly
Showing something that still seems to be very resistant to salinity
This is the story of a sunny morning at the tip of Sumatra,
told to the blue with great humility
