A golden fish lies in his hands

A golden fish lies in his hands,
His hands themselves are gold,
But his skin is scarred and dark as night,
Before he reached the quiet harbor,
Where he could cast his nets in peace,
The ruthless sun had burned it with its light.

A golden fish lies in his hands,
His hands themselves are gold,
But his eyes are dark with remembered fear,
All that he saw has baked inside:
Blood and ash, the moans and gasping.
No ocean’s tide could cleanse that sear.

A golden fish lies in his hands,
His heart itself is gold.
The fish will vanish into the depths of the sea.
He would have told his wife of wonder,
He would have shared the tale with grandchildren
But there are none, nor ever will there be.

--
Thanks to Leah Borovoi for improving the text.