Does the weary mind, like a well-worn tea strainer, weed out the bitter leaves and pour a glowing ruby stream of reconstructed emotions into freshly baked bone china cups, set on pretend lace doilies that gamely hide yesterday’s stubborn stains?
If I long should live,
Then, perchance, the present days
May be dear to me;
Just as past time fraught with grief
Now comes fondly back in thought.
(by Fujiwara no Kiyosuke Ason in Clay MacCauley’s translation of the anthology Hyakunin Isshu-84)
Are modulated memories so intricately overlaid on the threadbare tapestries of past pain, that eyes, like willing accomplices, gasp in surprise and reach down to drag the ends of amazed lips into a sun- crusted smile?
from voiceless scars
jagged wings grow
to serenade the burning sky