I. Flame that speaks
The mountain breathes, the island stirs—
To Kirishima we are drawn once more,
Not by plans, but by the threads of spirit
To mend what was severed,
To kindle truth in sacred fire.
II. Silence that sings
In the deep grove where few footsteps fall,
A stillness holds the shape of the gods.
My heart remembers:
"I will return. Not alone."
Now fulfilled in the company of light.
III. Soil that joins
Bonds woven through dust and dew,
Welcoming hands, whispered names,
We kneel in reverence,
Offering all that was shed—
To begin again, as one.
Whispers of Flame, beckon through ash,
The breath of the volcano, ancient and deep. Waters of silence, bathe the unseen path,
Guiding footsteps where light dares not reach.
To the roots of Earth, old vows return,
Each step drawn around a cratered ring. Beyond the smoke, a faint outline glows—
The promise renewed beneath heaven’s wing.
Even delay is divine design,
Pointing the soul to its appointed hour. The pillar of life burns, unwavering bright,
Illuminating truth at the heart of power.
In the silence of long-kept things,
a heaviness gathers unseen.
Beneath the comfort of cluttered years,
dust becomes the spirit’s fog.
To cleanse is not to discard—
but to reawaken the sacred breath.
Each paper torn,
each item passed on,
is a return to clarity,
a prayer whispered in motion.
The highball in hand,
not a luxury—
but a libation,
offered to the fire of purification.
I walk through homes
where years have settled in corners,
where hope clings to yellowing receipts,
where every unopened drawer
holds a question unasked.
But dust...
Dust is the echo of unmoved will.
Its weight is not of matter—
but of stagnant meaning.
Beware its silence.
For its color tells of old grief,
and its thickness—of dreams deferred.
Let us not forget: To leave dust untouched
is to allow one's fortune to sleep.
So let us sweep not just the floor,
but also the soul.
I. Stillness Unfolds In the hush of midyear light, I step within my inner shrine. The world may stir, uncertain and loud, Yet my breath knows a deeper time.
II. To Refine Is to Remember I cleanse the space where thought resides, Polish the corners where echoes hide. Each motion—quiet, sacred, slight— Tunes the strings of unseen sight.
III. Connection Awaits For when the soul is finely tuned, The ones we meet will hum in tune. Not by effort, not by chase— But by the quiet law of grace.
So I prepare, in 靜 and 調, To welcome what I cannot yet know. And trust that “繋ぐ” is never forced, But flows where harmony is sourced.
