Sorry that I could not save you from your killers.
Sorry for the slow painful death you had to succumb to.
Sorry for running away, when they attacked you.
Before you feel sorry, let me tell you that I am not one of you.
I am the son of a mother, you had for dinner.
You destroyed my family.
Left me an orphan – for your meat and oil, it was my mother you took away.
I know you won’t feel sad.
After all, it’s been a Japanese tradition for so many years.
Every year, you kill thousands of us.
With barbed harpoons, and .350 calibers.
Hauling us overboard, and slashing our necks, even when we are still breathing.
I do not know when it is my turn.
But, whenever it is,
I will be the one with a dried up tear in my eye and a gaping wound,
Awaiting my death.