The return of the prodigal.
While the others pack up their saddle bags and ride into the distance, the stranger stands caressing an elegant and shapely, but lonely Katana. Centuries of knowledge and conditioning lend him the wisdom of the brave. The Samurai smiles into a greying horizon.
Anonymity is a blessing, in every disguise. For a civilization that breeds emotionless thought-oriented action, the stranger is a clear misfit--one who thinks from the heart and not from the cranuim. He seeks not the redemption of the braves--death on the battlefield, but the ethereal beauty of the Sakura. A perfect bloom that would enlighten even the Zen masters. Nothing but the eternal beauty within can ever bring peace to the warrior within.
As the weary warriors exit the field, several souls depart, holding on to their emotional baggage. Theirs will remain a life unfulfilled, for they must live through each sorrow once again, until they learn to let go. That is the way of the Samurai--a still and thoughtless mind, a thoughtful soul, and a heart that feels and yet yields to the spirit.
The Warrior smiles, forlorn and lonely. This was a battle he never intended to fight, much less win. The minds of his cohorts lost their way to their hearts, they fought, for an alien cause--one that they would never understand. May their souls find redemption in the after-life. Theirs has been a battle in vain. The Warrior smiles forlornly, as meloncholy strings play in the background. This has been a good life, but the Katana needs to rest. The spirit is willing, but the bloom is yet to take shape. Deliverance awaits, as spring takes birth.
