Hope, moisture, dryness.

A fisherman who comes to the shore day after day,

Where the fish bite least, but there are no people.

A shore that's dry and dreary, yet that's even better.

A shore where routine has become a cyclical nature.

He begins his fishing, gazing into the distance,

As if trying to see something there.

His blurred reflection with a vacant stare looks back at him.

He turns away and notices a rose, plucking it to give to his son.

The wind howls, the fishing line tugs, the grass sways, but nothing happens.

The fisherman sits back down to continue the boring yet peaceful fishing.

He is alone here, it is cold, but it seems he likes it that way.