O Stranger
Let the first red rays of the rising sun caress your eyelids
while you meditate
Let the Buddha of Kamakura speak to you in silence
The early hours of the morning at Sagami Bay are like those on any other day: the Pacific lapping at the beach, the sound of crashing waves, the hiss of the mist, the salty tang in the air. From beneath the sea, the fish look up as the first rays of light diffuse into the restless water. The terns and gulls squawk unpleasantly but with happiness. In the death of others is the guarantee of their own life.
Many men have left the shores of Yokohama and returned as tormented ghosts held in an embrace by the spray of the surging waves. Time continues to paint everything gently. Love evaporates and kisses the restless gull; ambition disintegrates into the sand and slides down, down, several feet below. No man shall be spared death. The Amitabha Buddha of Kamakura will watch over acts of passion and hate, of evil and tenderness.
The fishing boats will take an hour to return from their overnight journeys. Hideo, the vagrant philosopher-poet, sits quietly on his haunches on the beach, letting the water touch him from time to time. Yes, there is a hint of red in the clouds and slowly, with a vicious intent, the red spreads over the bay. Hideo now sees a sea of blood in which even the ghosts have been drenched.
He walks along the beach wondering what the sea may have decided to reject today. It is the usual—dead fish, a couple of writhing eels approaching the inevitable, many shells and pieces of wood from ships that rest in the sea several fathoms below.
In the swampy area far from the harbour, he sees a larger shadow. Ah, perhaps a whale or a shark. He walks through the muck and the weeds, his feet making a sucking noise as he moves one leg and then the other. A few nesting birds squawk in alarm and anger and fly away, the sound of their flapping mixing with the dull thunder from below the sea.
A shark? An octopus? No. The light is not strong enough. He ventures closer and looks carefully.
A body hugs the swamp, face down. A man in a Western suit. Who is he? Why did he depart this way? Was he asked to? Who shall say?
Hideo looks back at Sagami Bay. The red is even more profound, but again, a sliver of sunlight edges up and meets a passing cloud.
The Buddha of Kamakura continues to meditate, his gentle smile frozen as it has been for so many years.
Two gulls fly upwards in joy, silently.