Kerchief

There was blood everywhere
blood on the lintel,
on the window and seats
as the mountains phased past.
In a land of Samurai and feuds
where the future’s boundlessness
tilts against the sober backdrop
of robed Buddhists under bronze statues,
topiary and rice balls, little sweets –
a stranger speaking no language we knew better
than Moishi Moishi, with a brow wrinkled
in concern, calmly communicated
by presenting a handkerchief;
a Zen moment, withering grasshoppers in the heat.

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