The mists of the village welcomed a new visitor,
A monk of the road,
Tsugaru shamisen in hand,
Ragged in his very being,
Skeletal and mute,
A man whose eyes had never seen,

He played for rice and water,
His instrument his only possession,
Aside from the soiled cloth on his back,
The shamisen continues its mournful twangs,
Each pluck unleashing a tale of spirits,
Mystifying the villagers in its sad tones,

The old monk persisted,
With his music magic seemed real again,
Not a single eye remained dry,
Even the skies above acknowledged his rueful tune,
Falling in dismal sheets,
The village walked beside spirits once more,

And the shamisen continued its mournful twangs.

Comments
  1. An amazing piece. Well penned.
    Powerfully heartwarming and creative lines:
    “Even the skies above acknowledged his rueful tune,
    Falling in dismal sheets,”

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