From the private writings of Sanada Yukimara, a Samurai warrior.
I saw him standing behind my father, his blade held tightly in his hand. He did not shake, nor did his blade. His eyes were glazed over by sheer duty; his obligation had taken over every nerve in his body. They say the Samurai shares oneness with his blade, that the delicate katana becomes an extension of the man wielding it. I know this is not so. The sword does not become part of the man, but the man becomes the sword. The soul and the sword take the same journey in the Samurai. What once was tender is held over a fire and pounded away by mallets until it becomes hard. What once was dull is whittled away until it becomes razor sharp. What once was warm is stolen away and replaced with a feeling of iciness, like touching a cool razor on a frigid night. He was not human, no part of him shook or moved, for he was made of steel, and as indifferent as cold metal could be, he watched as my father bled to death. I could feel water rushing to meet my eyes, my blood felt like it was flowing down to my feet, and then I went numb.
After some time of practicing the ways of the Samurai, fate crossed Lord Hikaru’s path with my own. I was still very much in training, still with a lean hunger for knowledge, and still very confused about many things in life. At first when Hikaru rode through my village, I could not bear to look at him. In his eyes I saw the reflection of my father’s last moments of life; I saw the image of a man sitting in absolute stillness as he calmly took a dagger and pierced his own heart. Such is the price of honor, but it did not mean I had to look at the man who, as apathetic as steel, had watched my father die, ready to finish him if suicide proved too slow. No, I could not bear it.
Yet fate persisted, and Hikaru continued to ride through my village even more frequently. Then, one day, as I sat in silent mediation by the river, as subtle as the rustling of leaves, I heard another man squat down next to me. I looked over, and it was Hikaru. I was startled at first and jumped at the sight of him. He only smiled and unrolled a scroll, took some ink from within his garb, and then proceeded to paint. “I have frightened you.” He said, not even looking at me. “Yes…” I answered, still dumbfounded. “I remember you, Sanada.” He replied, still not looking up from his delicate work. I stood there in silent stubbornness, and I felt anger rising up within me. “You miss your father,” he said, calm as ever, “I understand.” “You watched him die,” I said, “I am sorry, Lord Hikaru, but I find it difficult to be in your presence.” He chuckled, “You know what your father had to do.” “I know,” I said, “but...” He finally looked up at me, “what your father did was honorable and poetic.”
I let my emotions best me, “And what do you know of poetry?” I stood there in defiance, but I knew my naiveté had shone through. “I know that poetry is everything you do until you die.” He said calmly, going back to his work, “Sit, I’ll teach you a lesson.” I reluctantly squatted down next to him. “This hand…” he said, raising the hand with the brush in it, “has written one-hundred and twenty three poems, it has painted the morning sun and the midnight moon, it has depicted the cherry blossom tree in fine ink, and it has taken the lives of thirty men.” I glanced over at him, and he glanced back. “Poetry.” He said simply.
“Make no differentiation in your mind, young Sanada. Black ink flowing onto paper, it is no less beautiful than life’s red dye saturating the earth. The poet and the warrior live as one, it is not both that reside in the soul, nor one or the other, for they are the exact same, the exact same. As certain as this hand can swiftly guide the brush across the scroll, so too can it sever the scruff; and be no less artist than assassin. We are but delicate strokes of ink, dwelling on parchment that only holds the stains of blood and poetry. These are the pigments of your existence, the only at your disposal, and to deny one from the other will leave you with only half a life lived.”
After that fateful meeting, I did not see Hikaru again. Months passed, and then years, until he unexpectedly appeared at my doorstep one morning. He handed me his sword, and knelt down before me. He took a dagger from his garb, closed his eyes, and held it high. “Write down what I say.” He said serenely. I took some ink and some parchment and prepared to write.
Cherry blossom
in first delicate bloom.
Man must live as such.
Farewell Mountains
and fresh morning dew.
Mistress Wind,
whispering in my ear,
beckons me to bed.
Like the flower petal,
I feel her sweet breath,
and on her call
I swiftly glide
and there fade.