The Ethereal Mirror of a Wandering Samurai

In the darkness of a deadly white night,

a young samurai sits atop a roof,

blooded blade and ragged proof,

her chivalrous hat casually dotted with orchis tassels;

her faraway mind melts into the moonlight shadows.

Is a tiger in a bamboo grove,

or a crane in a lotus pool?

Calculating with a finger bend,

autumn's chill sent in the wind.

Years flow by, unnoticed

in the darkness, covert.

Plum wine fills the cup aglow

at the wine feast. Samurai knows

the horse's call, a familiar sound,

another mission bound.

If I lie, drunk, upon the sands,

do not laugh at my fate's demands,

for how many samurais, in times of old,

left to fight, and never made it home?

As I walk down the same bended road, a sigh,

a silver line hanging on a navy sky,

it's the moon's gloomy sheen,

up high, before it lies on a lake serene.

Gazing into the lake, tranquil blue,

two fiery orbs, the samurai's eyes anew

look back at me from

a ripple on the placid surface, trembling.

"Why are you here?" I whisper low,

my voice filled with sorrow, my heart

gripped by woe, and a feeling, cold and creepy.

"You found me."

A smile.

I carry the soul of the samurai,

and walk in this world that’s

composed of my infinite dreams,

particles that dance and frolic,

or so it seems, to a bending, winding,

flowing stream.