of the mushroom cloud
fell the little boy;
a war veteran weary sentinel
hibaku jumoku lets out
greens, through the worldly shards
a witness to it all, after-
an inky deluge,
the A-bomb survivor, now-
coughs out oxygen
for the dynastic gluttons.
Eight decades up, and
still around its beefy boughs
the birds sing, they still gather
still knot
still weave sanctuaries
for their tender tissue of love
to find a home of their own.
In another world,
thousand miles away
earth gods in their havens
clink glasses
to the best weapon wrought
their appetite intact
their salvers full of tots
and ticking devices…
this life…
we’ll never have enough,
not until
the earth
clears and cleans
the boutique body cart
off its floor.
*****
The poetry is written to commemorate August 6, 1945—a day that marked the profound devastation of human conflict in Japan. The surviving hibaku jumoku (A-bombed survivor trees) stand as a poignant testament to the enduring necessity of global peace and a living reminder of the imperative to halt warfare.