Something Strange Across the River Page 8
by Kafū Nagai
A lingering mosquito
Stabs my forehead
Spot of my blood.
From your pocket
Produce a tissue, wipe it away.
Toss it in the corner of the garden.
The stalks cannot support the weight of the amaranth leaves.
With night, the fog grows cold.
Without thought of the evening winds
The leaves,
Without thought of their approaching deaths,
Their burning embroidery grows brighter,
Even as their stalks bend and curl.
The butterfly grown ill
Totters on broken wings
The flowers bloom in the shadows
Of the dying leaves
