Rice paper and brushes, hands writing with the movements that only butterflies can do so slow, like colored shadows of a secret garden with the murmur of whispering voices...

-->







I am a old oak tree which you came to
in summer for its shadow,
but was ignored all winter long.

A butterfly from Japanese garden of old,
the one you always expected,
the one samisen string talked in a song.

Fingers of the sun when winter’s cold
try to grab the solitary heart,
a piercing arrow that let our the warmth.

Samurai’s katana silence cutting through
little geisha’s sorrowful tears,
I, the old oak with a tender shadow for you.