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His eyebrows sparkling, his white beard hangs down to his chest. The thatched mats, spread outside his chise, spread softly, his splendid attos. He polishes, cross-legged, his makiri, with his eyes completely absorbed.
He is Ainu.
The god of Ainu Mosir, Ae-Oine Kamuy, descendant of Okiku-Rumi, He perishes, a living corpse. The summers day, the white sunlight, unabrushed, ends simply through his breath alone.
I miss that child
Who could watch cartoons
On a Saturday morning.
I miss that child
Who could ask silly questions
Without repercussion.
I miss that child
But it is lost to me
By the greatest distance.
So I must make do with the present,
And honor that child
In spirit and memory.
Poetry Thread