Tumbleweed winds brush through the blossomed grove of sakura trees.

Tall buildings painted with bright reds and whites crispen

under the noon sun.

Mahogany bridges arc

over winding tiger like rivers.

Koi, as big as the fat cats that hawk over them,

drift like the puffy clouds up high.

Amidst this sleeping village of spring,

the wind-walker’s cerulean-silk robes

flow like the evening tide,

as the ocarina he plays,

enchants the wind

to release the gold wishes of dandelions;

whisper cotton-soft dreams

in the ears of blue bunnies;

and to hum one last lullaby to our ancestors.