“Wolf-teeth moon She looks habitual
I raise the cup drain it of all the wind and snow
Who tipped over the cupboard of the past life enticing dust and quarrels
The hymn of Fate numb reincarnations
You frown cry for the youth that will not return when called
Although history has already become dust my love is not snuffed out”
She’s used to the colour of the moon now, desolate, rusty, somewhat unappetizing, like the ruins of a forgotten dynasty. I raise my cup in toast to her, draining the liquid within in a single gulp. It tasted slightly bitter, like a path well-worn through the pounding of wind and snow must have felt. I glance at her again and wonder who was it that stumbled into the storage chest of the last Reincarnation and scattered all its content hither and thither, letting loose a storm of dust motes and strife. Here the hymn of Fate starts again but after being numbed by numerous reincarnations, it falls on deaf ears. I glance at her again and retreat quietly into a corner to brood.