The days of the Security Treaty struggle and Zenkyoto are far away; red, red is the moon in Iraq’s sky.
The desert that sucked the children’s blood is bleakly blown and scattered along the horizon.
Vengeance sworn in spilled blood quietly lets time flow by.
By the oily smoke that burned these children to ashes, the Emperor’s rice now grows in abundance.
On the train to WPC Expo, I wrote about 4 tanka poems (?). Various keywords are hidden in the last one—can you find them?
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