Millennium Night

Since when this sift of snow?

Behind me, behind the drapes, altering the world,

unhurried, unhesitating, lightly touching earth,

drifting onto upturned faces, opened palms,

so perfect, like everything I desired

in the old days.

Is the day finally here? The one people fuss about,

the fading twentieth century

like breath on a windowpane.

My father saw battles

but survived the war. Hating

the nation he fought,

he never came here.

One summer in the nineties

his face froze forever to a photo by an urn.

So what if he never saw snow? I have,

but will die in the century to come.

Cheering, fireworks, blasts in the night sky.

What does a millennium stand for, choiring angels

or the holy spirit’s grace?

If this is the beginning, what could be its end?

In my small hotel, I sit by the window

as if at someone’s birthday, joyful, apathetic.

Will I open the window at morning

to behold

yuki onna

, the legendary snow ghost?

I consider the first flurries,

how they meet the ground, then melt.

Sunshine tomorrow or snow?

Whatever the festival,

people crowd again the parks or plazas

embracing for some reason,

same smiles on different faces,

for a moment each of us believing

in happiness and peace.

It’s always me who spoils the fun

whatever day we praise.

Colorful balloons lurch skyward,

a nameless northern street appears before my eyes,

so quietly reclined across the land of memory

all scenery turns transparent.

Deep in the mountains the temple bell

traverses time and space, echoing

as snow descends in clumps,

silent, unadorned, distinct.