Warrior’s Journal: All That Is Hidden by the Forest

A Haibun

The bamboo trees conspired together like the sea, my love, the sound one I wish I could put into a flask and send home to you like a drink of sake. It brought to mind those days, years gone now, when we were young. I had injured my leg in the campaigns and been sent home for almost a full year. We walked slowly, your arm in mine, bearing the weight for me. I had little skill for words or thoughts then, and I didn’t say all that those days meant to me. Perhaps I didn’t know then, anxious to prove myself, to go and rejoin my comrades in their bloody pursuits. I will say it now, though. Being with you, with no task greater than walking a bit further each day, with no tension or worry—those were great days, and made me understand my own great fortune.

A leaf falls slowly,
afraid of the earth below,
earth is grave and womb.

An owl’s glinting
eye, high in the rustling
wood, is treasured now.

Our young hands touching
within the dappled shadow,
springtime long ago.

Your brother fell ill, love, and we left him with a healer and a dozen soldiers before we entered the deeper parts of the forest. The enemy waited for us there, and I was glad to leave at least one cherished person behind before the fighting started, even leaving him to illness and fever. I know it sounds cruel, but it was for the best. If I could provide a reprieve for anyone, I would choose for them not to face what we faced within those boughs.

To me, even now, it feels unreal—just a crashing horror of chaotic shouts. I remember giving orders, desperate ones to loose arrows blindly into dimness and shifting shadow. I remember the blood as it lay dark against the low shrubs. I remember my soldiers’ pale faces as they sank to the ground and were still. One in every three men died within the space of four days. My spirit is lessened from it, and none of us will ever forget those we lost. Fate sees fit to put these awful experiences in front of us for her own reasons. I cannot fathom them. I wish only to finish this march and come home to you. No heroism or duty seems sweet or just to me now. All my martial pursuits seem hollow and meaningless. Only my family and my trusted friends seem to matter now. The silence and goodness of forests is broken within me, and only the touch of your hands upon my skin can heal these unseen wounds.

I have seen madness,
the blood clinging thick upon
summer’s green foliage.

All mankind is less,
wars eroding what spirit
our springtime once held.

The light-footed deer,
safe from us now that we lie
pale upon the earth.

Seasons will go by,
forgetting all horrors and
the debts of honor.

Only this contains
hope: your eyes, your skin, your heart,
saplings growing new.

May we meet again
when cherry blossoms promise
perfect redemption.