There is such sadness in the trout,
The fisherman must dislodge the hook
And gently lower the fish into the water.
He watches as it shoots in a trail of bubbles
Back to its world of sunken cypress roots.

We are sad, too, for some prehistoric force
Crushes our molars down on the slaughtered calf,
On the fowl that barely knew sun
Or the joy of crowing and strutting
Or of brooding over young life.

The Ainu apologize to the bear
And invite him to his own feast,
Just as a bear,
With a part of her mind looking on
In horror,
Devours a hunter.
The bear tearing the man apart
In front of her cubs
Knows the man has cubs, too.

Young men on both sides
Rush to enlist in vast armies,
But once they have another young man
In their sights,
And squeeze the trigger,
The marksmen’s youth has fled,
And with thus conferred manhood
Comes the knowledge in the apple:
To salute a fallen enemy
And curse every weapon.

Men put this sadness
In a vault at the base of the abyss
And roll a stone across the entrance.
It’s their way,
And haunted, they are alone
When they make love to their wives
And play with their children,
But most of all when they
Look into their sons’ eyes.

September 7th, 2007