If you could ask the poet
why his pen has suddenly
become heavy to write for
the one-he-loved;
when once it was a wisp of
wind on his hands,
then be sure to sharply
remember his
words.
And if you could, kindly ask
the carpenter why his hands
do not work with ease about
curves and bends for his little
love's latest gift or trinket,
and be sure to keep his answer
committed to mind securely.
And if you would please me,
ask the graceful geisha why she
hesitates in donning her finest
silk or brushing her familiar
jasmine scented powder on her
body for her beloved danna.
Ask her why the lovely lights
around the hanamachi do not
inspire a song for him, when
once she lived to pluck her
shamisen for his slightest
smile or his vaguest fancy,
then do your best to keep
her whispered answer tightly
locked.
Then do this:
Gather all your answers
write them as clear as ice
in the cruelest winter;
bind the pages and compile
me a lengthy book,
then revel to me its
deepest secrets.
Perhaps then I might come
to find some simple solution,
or find myself an understanding
of why I could not,
-cannot-
write this...for you.