The Shaking Symphony
Atop soft wine skies
The cicada’s biwa coos
Her name a spoken secret
Oh tranquility
Where the glass butterflies lie
Sea of shallow crowds
Shivers of first love
Pierce like no other knife
Death of a biwa
A jealous murder
From a woman not adorned
Bloodstains like rubies
The red curtain calls
Shaking like black mountain winds
Behold the biwa
Shaking bloodied hands
It’s sound falling like new snow
Upon singing glory
With eyes like flies
Crowds eat the requiem whole
Swaying so gently
They no longer hear
The groan of spoken secrets
Only the biwa