Does the last autumn leaf on the naked bough, still shed a cold tear for a lost green dream, before it plummets into a rotting heap of russet lies? Is the river, its mouth open to the breath of the sea, still hearing a song from a faraway bank, where the notes danced with it, hand in hand, over the moss-dressed stones? Is all life one plaintive poem about a lurking ache that has no form and no name?
The colour of flowers
has faded indeed
have I passed through the world
while gazing at the falling rains.
(by Ono no Komachi in Prof. Mostow’s translation of the anthology Hyakunin Isshu-9)
Somewhere, in the sun soaked corridors of hope, did a trembling hand once hide, behind the seven-hued arches, little pots of dark regret? Perhaps to serve as the ebony keys that would complete a song bird’s rhapsody, if only for a single waiting ear.
between smudged lines
a voice holds out a hand
hoping to be rescued