The past is smoke curling,
Up, from the votive burn can
In the Shrine yard, whirling,
Up, into sun rays peeking
Through the ancient trees,
Turning white, gently swirling,
Smelling it, I sit, at ease,
In the Zen of the sacred place,
Where Shinto gods have
Caused time to slow its pace,
As a tentative winter breeze,
Wafts the burnt wishes past my face...
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