text: Deep, from the waters An unyielding force swims ashore Broken, born anew The Samurai walks through the tall grass, it is a lonely, still night. The kind of still that watches patiently from the shadows. Finally, he is greeted with the wind, which howls through the shaking branches of sakura and silver grass. His love so close now, he walks. The air was once clear Then leaves changed their color There is no return In the quiet open of night he ponders his being, which quick draw will be his last? He has cut his way through the land, a Ronin demon, rumors of his mutilation sweep the land like the wind that caresses him now, an unchained bringer of death. However, the demon’s blade is a myth, and myths are something fate is no stranger to proving. He takes a deep breath as the wind now calms to a breeze; so soft you can hear the blades of silver grass speak to the earth, and the branches of sakura crack and twist in gnarled life. One moment too soon Or hesitation, too late One moment is fate The Samurai walks so straight. His straw hat sitting atop his head, as if to shield his eyes from the wind’s calls and visions of death. Bushido is not a code, nor a moral, it is a way of life. The Hagakure. The way of Bushido is not to serve a master, truly , it is to serve a purpose, that purpose is honor. The death that lurks every corner for Samurai is not a nightmare, rather, a dream. One wishes to wake from a nightmare, but a dream is just a walk that every man must make. In the mist it calls The one true knowledge of man Heart disconnects mind The body always heeds to the begging of the heart. There is only one who waits for him, maybe two. Once a warrior, now the Demon’s Blade, soon maybe a farmer. Fate whispers in the breeze, preparing him through the whistles and howls of the branches that guide his path. His destination now days away from the weeks of travel, excitement is not an emotion a Samurai knows, he walks. So careless it loves The sakura's soft shadow A heart drowns in it Suddenly a figure approaches, It has been waiting. It has heard the tall tale of a demon, a ronin coward. The Samurai demon stops walking to stare into the figure while it finishes it’s speech. It is Hatori Musashi, a ronin as well, from the Ashika prefecture, Musashi does not believe in such stories. But how could any of this concern the Demon? We learn in the storm That the rain is a blessing Disguised as a flood The Samurai Demon says nothing. Instead, he speaks through the resting of his hand upon the handle of his blade, the Demon’s blade. In the moonlight between silvergrass and sakura, while the breeze whispers lies in the Demons ear; in the ancient times, when men made their name by their resolve. The two, now still and quiet as the night that surrounds them, look into each other. The wind counts the moments until a decision is made, life... or death... Waiting for the first move. Then, it’s over in an instant, they both draw. The Demon, in lightning speed, attempts a slash but misses. The figure moves in a way of absolution, then swiftly stabs the Demon... deep, to the handle. The wind stops completely, the silver grass stands straight, and the sakura dare not loosen a petal. No more to ponder, they stand for a moment, sword thrusted through a Demon’s heart. The wind begins to blow a new name, and the petals loosen their grip. The figure finally removes his katana from the Demon’s body. Trying his best to stand, the Demon falls on his back. In the moonlight, between silver grass and sakura, the Demon struggles through his final breaths as petals of love gently cover him, a final gift.