In twilight fields the blue monk wanders softly,
Eyes like the dusk that trembles in silence,
Whispers of warning drift through the tall wheat,
Shadows awake.
In empty halls, behind the tiles of the bathroom,
He leans, one-eyed, where children fear and falter,
A glimpse of his gaze, a chill through the quiet,
Spirit of blue.
Through mountains high, he tests the overconfident,
A sumo match tossed by hands of the hidden,
Strength in his frame belies his humble form,
God in disguise.
Spin by the pine, and hear him warn the careless,
“Do not break stone, do not snap the old branches,”
Blue priest of the night, the field, and the house,
Ever returns.