Itako-san’s shrill rhythmic laments
(for itako trill their unspoken chants)
are broken snatches of incantations
that ring through my ears perhaps salutations.
Improvised songs filled with composite rules.
A clutching hand shakes beads to heal wounds.
Kneeling before her approach the bereaved:
a lover, a mother, those who are grieved.
Itako-san swiftly snatches for pains,
evoking solutions from alternative planes.

​

Itako-san with a hallowed face,
transporting anguish into a place
of comfort, of joy, of images bountiful.
Sharing a moment in awe insurmountable
when poised in your tent, sweltering love,
surrounded by desolate fissures above
on the hillside leading down to a lake
whose sulphurous shore gives respite to heartache.
Glowing white sand where undead linger on,
offerings stark left to those who are gone,
sadness resting in pungent air.

​

In a temple, priests are kneeling for prayer,
beating a drum to uplift and empower.
Crows watch over each fading hour.
Banners creak, beneath pinwheels whirl,
life at its darkest gives cause to return.