Midsummer Death

Tsunaki Kuwashima

We could hardly recognize him.

Is he dead?

I saw him after he has gone.

I had no words to exchange with him.

He might have sensed it or he might try to avert unnecessary tragedy by having a strain conversation,

he opened the pupil and lure me into the darkness.

His image reminded me of the vermilion inside of him.

That was bubbling and boiling like magma.

He bled for honor.

He could have given up anytime.

He lived with the sun and died in mid-summer.

I looked up the sky that burnt him away.

May the blood he bled make a way out of no way.

And someone follows in the footstep of him someday.

Read “Contribution from Kazz Morohashi”

Read “Contribution from Michael Horsham”