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