Spring

You want answers -
they are riding on the wings
of a moth just passing through,

You who believe
the dead, returning,
now sits on your thumb.

What reassurance does it bear,
what message from the broken islands
scattered to a thousand directions

On which each stands a mother
clutching in her hands the clothes
of children never to return.

Wails will carry far,
will carry the bones
from the Miyagi Prefecture

To our shores, will wash upon
the sand like drift woods
under a sky without seasons,

Glowing in ghostly lights.