Haiku! I had heard of her. An inscrutable touchstone of feeling tucked away among foreign habits. We became intimate once introduced one whisky-worded night under the moon. Over the course of a few intervening years, I behold more and more of her as she sheds for me the silken veils of her captors.
I do not mind her present promiscuity. That is only to be expected after her centuries of confinement behind bamboo curtains. Honour-bent men restrained her wild spirit by sublimating it into an aesthetic of tightness. Mere suggestions of the blood-fury seething within.
The muse, so long hidden away, teases words from my reluctant voice to give shape to the silence and the darkness drowning in the present age.