At night time
the statues come alive.
Talking as though
nothing ever happened.
It is easy for them to forget.
All those arrows shot
into the hearts of the
unused and buried.
Nobody sees the blood
anymore, anyway.
And not one of them
can remember, how many
times the cherry trees
flowered on their birthdays.
Their work done, they sleep again.
As though they were never born.
A Wandering Poet 