memories bud from long ago
of that hill near the sea
under that willow tree
where she had plucked that koto
and sang a bittersweet song
full of both love and pain
like the first of spring rain
that cruel winter did prolong
and blood that fell from her hand
staining the grass below
for the sake of her show
like feathers plucked with each strand
now the willow is in bloom again
while she plays for the first time since then