of kamikaze pilots.
A fateful ritual
for God & Country,
painted thick,
like Van Gogh's
boarish winds.
A weapon lost.
A warrior fallen.
A child kidnapped.
A king gone mad.
A mystery left unsolved.
Thunder explodes. Once. Twice.
Chattering children in playgrounds
sweep and crumble away.
Their shadows mark their graves.
1 comments:
Kurosawa always paints his films in broad, sweeping, epic strokes, while still maintaining a strong sense of intimacy. His are also stories that speak for a nation, left to disintegrate post WWII, yet persisting on through its traditions. This poem is just a smudge, a snippet, an inkling of the much larger Kurosawa, revised from the version below:
Clouds mourn,
Hailing comets of rain:
Millions of kamikaze pilots
Dancing their fateful dance
For God and Country.
Rain paints thick
Like Van Gogh’s gusting winds.
A weapon lost.
A warrior dies.
A child kidnapped.
A king goes mad.
A mystery cannot be solved.
Thunder explodes. Once. Twice.
Chattering children in playgrounds
Sweep and crumble away.
Their shadows mark their graves.
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