Ronin's Vengeance: A Haibun

The rains fell like a widow’s tears that day, mournful for the blood that would soon be spilt. How the water mixed with the earthy ground, giving it the cast of freshly brewed tea. How shameful, then, that such a cleansing rain, long prayed for by both the rich and the poor, should be sullied by meaningless violence. No one knew exactly why it happened. Some say he was avenging his daughter, burned on a spike the next village over. Others say he was robbed of something dear, perhaps belonging to his long dead wife. All any of them knew for certain was that now the well drew nothing but spilt blood.

Blades clashed like thunder

And flashed like fiercest lightning.

Only the moon watched.

The elders had fished the poor bandit out. He smelled like fish left out in the sun’s heat. But the worst thing, by far, was that his head rolled along the ground, leaving a red trail. Someone had accidentally dropped it, for it looked like it was about to scream. The rest of the body was all bloody, as if he had been painted in red ink. His robes were covered with fearsome gash marks. One deep stab was found in his abdomen, out which his intestines tried to escape. There was no doubt: a skilled swordsman did this. As the pale corpse laid there, washed by the rain, The ground looked less like a cup of black tea and more like the site of a great battle. But what glory had been won in this death?

Alone, a man walked,

White as the moon that watched him.

He dared not look up.