warrior and maiden

 She

can not pass through the village 

without wishing to escape the gaze of 

men from the taverns who see her

reddened lips

the way her black hair shines after

being washed with fermented rice milk

somewhere underneath the porcelain mask

there once was a face less perfect

but less bitter

she longs for the days when she felt

invisible

He 

can hardly move under the weight of his armour

nor his sorrow

sometimes he thinks it would have been better

to have been ridiculed as a weakling

than to turn into this

and the maidens who giggle at his approach

mesmerized by the glint of his sword

expect to hear tales of his feats

how can he tell them that he feels as though

he sold his own soul?

They both would have wept at the perfect line of verse, would have painted landscapes and arranged flowers, would have read the chronicles of the empire not to celebrate the conquests but to lament what was lost,

They,

happen to pass by the same pond one day,

though most days are the same for them, 

and there is hardly ever a relief from,

their loneliness,

that being surrounded by admirers never cured,

but the lotuses looked lovely,

the heron's feathers demanded careful thought,

about what colour to use for them in a painting,

there warrior and maiden glimpsed each other,

for the very first time,

annoyed that the other had interrupted their solitude,

they continued on their way