The early and daily morning song that is inculcated in the hearts and minds of the simple fishing community in the eastern coast of India. It calls them all at each and every early dawn to tell the men folk to rise, brothers, rise; the wakening skies pray to the morning light for the great catch throughout the day. The wind lies asleep in the arms of the dawn like a child that has cried all night. They should leave immediately and let them gather their nets from the shore and set their catamarans; a yacht or other boat with twin hulls in parallel free. To capture the leaping wealth of the tide, the innumerable and immeasurable shoal of fish that moves with the warm ocean current; for these simple fishing folks are the kings of the sea! No longer had delay let them hasten away in the track of the sea gull's call. The sea is their mother, the cloud is their brother, and the waves are their comrades all. What though they toss at the fall of the sun where the hand of the sea-god drives? He, who holds the storm by the hair, will hide in his breast their lives. Sweet is the shade of the cocoanut glade; an open space in a wood or forest; and the scent of the mango grove; a small wood, orchard, or group of trees.
And sweet are the sands at the full of the moon; the light of the full moon lightens the surface water of the sea; with the sound of the voices they love; while returning to the shore they sing in rejoice to close each triumphant day. As the endlessly moving waves washes the sores of the land, they create very thick foam at the boundary of the water and the land. But sweeter, are the brothers, the kiss of the spray and the dance of the wild foam's glee; great delight: a song for men’s voices in three or more parts, usually unaccompanied. Row, brothers, row to the edge of the verge; an edge or border; where the low sky mates with the sea; the point over the horizon where the sea appears to touch the sky.