He whispered into
that unspoken chasm,

“I will be back before
the white cherry blossoms dance
their solemn march unto doom.”

I waited for you,
my eyes creased under
the amber coal of a dusky evening.

The kimono silks,
bunched at the tips
of ivory ankles.

“I will be back before
the white cherry blossoms dance
their solemn march unto doom.”

Those words,
so distant,
yet so familiar

beating though my veins
like the warbles
of a shomyo,

echoed through the air
of a moonless night.
My eyes

kept a careful watch
for those billowy
sails,

a sign of that whited
sepulchre of yester-
year.

“I will be back before
the white cherry blossoms dance
their solemn march unto doom.”

But you crushed the Butterfly
wings, laughing gleefully at
the metallic miasma you caused.

“I will be back before
the white cherry blossoms dance
their solemn march unto doom.”

Those empty colloquial
phrases, falling off the lips
of a hypocrite.

So, let me end this farce.
I will don the pure robes
of jigai,

and solemnly make my
way toward the
River of Three Crossings.

Pearl-encrusted glass,
glistening in the moonlight
pierces ashen flesh.