I was swimming in the ocean alongside a small sail boat. I came across a giant whale. I said please spare me. I’m one of many tiny fish in this ocean that you own.
Many years passed before I saw him again. He said, “My friend, hello.” I didn’t recognize his tiny size. This whale was so much weaker than the one I know.
But he knew just what I saw through wiser eyes, passed through a war on his way back here. And with weakened, weary, soaring cries, he told me this, I swear,
“You can save a nation from an atom bomb, but somebody’s gonna have to feel the flames. And you can wake the world with open, willing palms, but there’s nothing in your hands that they won’t take.”
I was floating towards the surface, eating some algae from a rock. I saw a seagull’s big black eyes. They were on me, but I was wise, said, “I know what you want, sir, and I am not.” He opened his beak despite my cries, but what came out, to my surprise, was the advice of his father, he squacked, “You can run, rebel, or cower from my claws, but eventually you’ll be eaten alive. You think you can change the world with words, your logic’s flawed, ‘cause either way your bones are taken with the tide.”
I escaped, but I was frightened. My fins they still shake just from the thought. But then my friend the whale returned, he said I’ve got a lot to learn, “Survival is key, but unfortunately, diplomacy’s not.”