Oh peasant’s soiled hands, you cherished final plan,
for I was growing hope in grains of boggy plant.

Submerged with all my roots, I feasted on the rain.
When sakura was pale and saki chilled in veins,

the boundaries of expectation dropped too low.
Before the Rising Sun was trashed and blushed in bow,

and swords of samurais exposed the guts in honor,
and “beetles” had no ‘a’(che) for little Yoko Ono,

I rushed my steady life to once become a spirit
and twice – to rhyme “bonsai!” in kamikaze’s lyrics –

the first to “stall in flight”, the second – “senseless die”.
I burst, I’m free and fried and moms’ astonished cry.

The plane in mortar bless, it’s pelted by stray slugs
and blood is painting glass and holes are smoky hugs.

I’m reaching greediness from lungs and spread on madness –
it tastes like infancy’s attained with brisking sadness,

and what is left for later - vestige to be shred
and crash of falling “Zero” - mess with sailor’s head.

Confusion, fusion, melt, and vaporizing noise -
it sinks, as kitties bag, and leaves for life no choice.

Debris inhaled too deep by dark side of the sea,
the sight is made so cheap and fishy – my emcee.

My bank is poor but still with millions years - stacks
ahead of losing gills and floor’s arousing cracks.

And one, who resurrects on Fujiyama snow,
will give me second chance and I shall guide a plow.

17 December 2008