After a few days locked inside, I went into the woods behind the temple.
On my way to a waterfall I would never reach, there was a small bridge that led to a narrow path at the foot of a mountain. On both sides of the bridge were red flags with pictures of Samurai.
Google could not read the Japanese text on the flags but translated a small sign into ‘erosion construction site’.
The mountain of the Samurai was slipping.
I followed a steep path that had wooden boards to keep the soil from slipping and pink ribbons in the branches of trees that led the way.
Last time I saw those pink ribbons was in Fukushima, the pink ribbons marked the locations that were cleared of radio active waste.
Forever I will see half empty villages and half empty faces and half empty roads and half empty futures when I see pink ribbons.
The triple disaster is not something of the past, in every conversation Fukushima comes up. There are rumours that fish caught in Fukushima are transported to Hokkaido in the far North and sold as fish from Hokkaido.
On the top of the mountain: the foundations of a Samurai fort. The fort itself has slipped away.
I walk where the Samurai must have walked, breath the air they breathed, listen to the crickets that sing the same song when the Samurai walked here.