Hail Zatoichi

A blind man slashes his cane
towards his assailants –
the blade flashes forward,
from nowhere, right back again..
glittering quicksilver in the
splashing rain on yet another, sinister,
Japanese night.
offense his defense! the
salvation of citizens without voice –
blind but deadly in contempt for
the killing choice. A killing joke,
bled by he who must take pause,
then repay the violence with
Japanese justice.
he has no fear; death is
the preferred option. honour,
his bone marrow. the origin
of the sun’s eastern rising heat
coils in the eyes of this
Japanese servant.
he has walked further than
this lifetime, twisted,
turned through decades,
leagues of blood.
the scent is instinctive, the
scent generations passed on,
the twists and turns natural to
the bones that yearn to be overcome
by the age he is judged for, the
disability he fakes to maintain
his edge – consecrate his faith in
Japanese pain.
they come in the hundreds to
circle and shame him, they know
zatoichi, samurai, but flaunt their
good sight before him, as children,
adults the same start to taunt him
he bows his head, kneels, crosses
his cane; awaits the next fool
set to strike him or test their
Japanese luck;
the wise turn their back on
the sinful, Zatoichi’s a
gambler. he represents the
ultimate will to survive..
to fight the good fight, merciful,
honest, right, but in all history
he only struggled to win – another
Japanese victory.
behold he inspires, fills our
senses and longings with the
mystery of his efficacy,
the grievous burden,
perilous joy of my authentic
Japanese Samurai.