—
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
—
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
—
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.
—