Choka of the Tokugawa Ronin
by Jérôme Martin

Too many days have
wandered by without our kill.
We bear marks upon
our heads-the three survivors
with unrustled blades,
our undrawn daisho, and our
time has come to die.
Six days, seeing our clansmen
fleeing or dying,
watching the long rain of bolts
in the open yards
where men joined corpses, fell on
ruined bodies, where
the great guns and numerous
soldiery ruled and
wracked the land-we chose instead
to know the back stairs
of men's minds. We chose the dim
ways of undergrowth
and mosses. The gully and
forests were our ground.
When the Penetrator Clan
descended, rattling
guns in the open air, the
Tokugawans flashed
down hidden paths and left them
baffled, without prey.
When Anne "taste of rice" was
hunted in the hall,
she knew the way to vanish,
doubling close upon
the heels of hunters, scenting
their breath, seeing their
sweat and diving away, safe.
But our hunting had
no help from heaven. Days long
lingering in branches,
sighting from the highest leaves,
our ambushes were
open-ended, our aim was
blighted and we failed.
Now the mark is on us all.
Cast out from clans and
lordless, we await our deaths-
untarnished, untouched.
You dead, recall our clan who
outlasting were outlasted.