When on a red screen
on the white pillows that are of dead faces
lie the hieroglyphs of brows and eyes
like butterflies embroidered in silk —
then I remember evening in the village
outside the city; floods of cherry blossoms;
beneath them, like cups filled with blood,
are beds of prize tulips.

An old man with glasses over eternally lacrimous eyes,
an old woman with sparse hairs on her still proud forehead,
and two children with the chattering of birds
and two adults with the flowing of fish —
all six
at a tea ceremony
over cups of blood stained flowers.

...Thus the tongue grows numb in the mouth
that doesn't recognize the taste of the liquid;
thus the whisper fades, and the scream
switches off the cinema.
Thus the precious and light
Hand gathers
and a needle turns in the heart of the specimen
like a sword.