It's festival day: paper
lanterns strung above
the hall. Names
are recited, children
fidget in the pews.
Oshoko, incense
and candles for those passed
on into the Pure Land.
In the kitchen, starched
ladies in madras
aprons ladle somen
into bowls.
The altar gleams with gold.
Sandalwood wafts through
the dojo as an old man
clasps his hands --
gassho. He bends
his shining bald head in prayer.
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