For a Little Child Lost, with Butterflies

by Michael R. Burch

Where does the butterfly go

when lightning rails, when thunder howls,
when hailstones scream, when winter scowls,
when storms compound dark frosts with snow?
Where does the butterfly go?

Where does the rose hide its bloom

when night descends oblique and chill
beyond the capacity of moonlight to fill?
When the only relief's a banked fire's glow,
where does the butterfly go?

And where shall the spirit flee

when life is harsh, too harsh to face,
and hope is lost without a trace?
Oh, when the light of life runs low,
where does the butterfly go?

Please tell me, dear child;

lead, oh, and I'll follow,
for surely, my Angel, you know ...
 Will we remain parted forever?
Here at your grave:
two flowerlike butterflies!
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Ah butterfly,
what dreams do you ply
with your beautiful wings?
― Chiyo-ni, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, dreamlike winter butterfly:

a puff of white snow
cresting mountains ...
― Kakio Tomizawa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Ring the bells that still can ring

Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.
— Leonard Cohen

I took one Draught of Life—

I'll tell you what I paid—
Precisely an existence—
The market price, they said.
— Emily Dickinson
Grasses wilt:
the braking locomotive
grinds to a halt
― Yamaguchi Seishi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Update of "A Litany in Time of Plague"

by Michael R. Burch

THE PLAGUE has come again

To darken lives of men
and women, girls and boys;
Death proves their bodies toys
Too frail to even cry.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!

Tycoons, what use is wealth?

You cannot buy good health!
Physicians cannot heal
Themselves, to Death must kneel.
Nuns’ prayers mount to the sky.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!

Beauty’s brightest flower?

Devoured in an hour.
Kings, Queens and Presidents
Are fearful residents
Of manors boarded high.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!

We have no means to save

Our children from the grave.
Though cure-alls line our shelves,
We cannot save ourselves.
"Come, come!" the sad bells cry.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!