Muhude Yamu

Let’s go to the sea, to catch fish
Launch the boat onto the lake
“Protect our children, dear Lord
Bless us with fish, and keep us safe”

Because of the season, they cry out on the shore
Leaving behind families and children to bring back fish
To protect the lives of those who know nothing of this
May we return safely, may we come back whole
Let’s go to the sea

Strong winds are blowing, sharp lightning strikes
Thunder crashes, fruits fall from trees
Waves rise high, the boat shakes and breaks
The wooden planks split and drift away
Let’s go to the sea

Terrifying is the life we live on the sea
Watching the sea monsters waiting from both sides
In the middle of the crashing waves, the boat sways side to side
There is no one to help us

Let’s go to the sea

“Muhude Yamu,” sung by Saman De Silva, is a powerful tribute to the silent courage of Sri Lanka’s fishing communities. It’s not a love song or a patriotic anthem – it’s a raw, honest expression of survival, faith, and sacrifice. The lyrics lay bare the reality of those who risk their lives each day just to bring food to shore.

The song begins with a humble prayer. The fishermen ask for protection from the divine – not for riches, not for glory, but simply to return safely with enough fish to feed their families. It’s a line that cuts to the heart of what this song is really about: daily life lived on the edge, driven by necessity, fueled by responsibility, and guided by hope.

There’s no romanticizing here. The ocean is not a peaceful blue horizon; it’s a force of chaos. Thunder roars. Waves rise. Boats shake and crack. The lyrics paint the sea not as an opportunity, but as a challenge to be faced head-on, without help, without guarantees. The mention of lightning and wild storms makes it clear that nature is always a threat – one they face not once, but constantly.

One of the most poignant moments is when the lyrics say: “Leaving behind families and children to bring back fish.” This isn’t just a song about the sea. It’s a song about absence, about fathers and sons who disappear into the waves not knowing if they will return – and families who wait without knowing whether to hope or fear.

The lines about the sea monster watching from both sides – likely a metaphor for death, danger, or nature’s unpredictability – reinforce just how vulnerable these lives are. The sea offers no mercy. The boat doesn’t always hold. And when things go wrong, there is no one to help. That last line – “There is no one to help us” – is sung like a whisper from the depths, echoing the loneliness of these men against the vastness of the ocean.

Yet, the song doesn’t despair. Its chorus, “Let’s go to the sea,” repeated again and again, is not a cry of fear. It’s an act of courage. Of necessity. Of duty. Despite the danger, they go. Every day.

“Muhude Yamu” is one of those songs that gives voice to the voiceless. It’s a Sinhala song with deep meaning, rooted in the real struggles of rural life. It’s about people who work with their hands and hearts – not for themselves, but for their families. For their villages. For the unseen.

It reminds us that behind every fish at a market, every plate of curry on a table, there’s a story. A journey. A man who faced the sea and came back, or didn’t.

This isn’t just a translated Sinhala song. It’s a song that honors a way of life. Quietly. Respectfully. Unforgettably.