Sweet music flutters through the air
Like butterflies disturbed from their resting place
The Maiko sits and plucks the strings
Of her wooden shamisen
Her face a touch of powdered chalk
Lips rosy red like ripened cherries
Delicate jewels adorn her jet black hair
She yearns to succeed in all she does
Learning from the geishas that too once sat,
where she now practices the art
She rises from where she sits
Her body floating effortlessly across the floor
Her hands so delicate caress the air
All eyes on her, no words are spoken
The swift flick of her pale white wrist
Short gasps of breath from the tortured souls who sit
wanting, waiting
They will have to wait
As the maiko is not ready to spread her wings alone
Soon enough she will become a geisha
And then, only then, will she be born