There was a net in the closet.
It was made of string which crisscrossed itself in a simple, repetitive way.
I remember all of the times I held it by its wooden handle.
I dipped it in the water, and I waited for the fish to come.
All those times used its end to move the mud and leaves,
Will be remembered long after I leave the net for lost,
For now the net is at the bottom of the pond, waiting for the fish to come.
They make their nests in the mud and leaves which have covered it by now.
In one hundred years the pond will be dried up.
No fish will live there anymore.
Someone will find the net, then.
They will dip it in the water, and all the fish will come.