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Festival of the Ages—

rite of passage through time

through halcyon days of unwavering homage

to demi-gods basking in the frail autumn sun

—

Here venture the nobility of varied stations:

in crested armor a legion of samurai, stoical and proud,

poised with a quiver of arrows and angst;

mounted on stallions bridled with unbounded energy

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Now maiden beauties in painted visage

trail in their footsteps

diadems of plum and fuchsia poppies

adorn heads of unabashed charm and humility

—

Townspeople draped in hues of crimson and gold,

bearing chests filled with the Shogun’s treasure,

walk steadfastly to the Heian shrine

resplendent and welcoming to the gatherers

—

An orchestra of flute players, a sole conch shell trumpeter

wail a siren call for war or peace

primordial blast of the human condition

mantra of sound and promise

—

What hope this procession carries with it,

despite modernity’s stealthy encroachment;

banished are the topknots, the long and short swords,

piercing wind and mist, certain in their ambition;

buried in a scabbard of ironclad disbelief

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Omnipresent are the waistcoats, the girdled hems,

parlor charlatans ushering in reformation,

feigning pacific time, hawking the industrial age

of stilted progress, of guns and machinery

—

Across swollen waters the maudlin sky dampens,

its teardrops in remembrance of past glory;

bruised temperament, mottled dreams

lure the casual observer

—

On Kamogawa River, a skein of egrets flies to the heavens

while satiated, weary-eyed onlookers saunter homeward,

the festival gala ringing in their memories,

a brief respite in the drone of their lusterless routine.

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