nocturne in pastels for hibakujumoku

they fall like a strange red bird in a old snare

they fall  like a strange pink koi in an old net

like a shadow of a Cherry blossom on a stagnant pool

like a dying pearl in the depths of the East China Sea

like Akiko Futaba singing forever beneath her casement

these hibakujumoku (a-bomb trees) leaves falling on

Hiroshima seventy seven autumns since the flashing sky.