Uma HanaedaWriting at night –
the ink follows its own rules.
In the morning,
the sentences gaze at you
like forest creatures roaming the village:
a blue deer,
a red fox,
a green stag,
leaping silently over rooftops.
Who spoke in the night?
You or them?
The words
fly like wings of light,
while the creatures disappear
into the houses' dreams.