Ono no Komachi

Kneeling on a polished cedar veranda, she rests a slender calligraphy brush against her chin, staring out at the parched, yellowing grass of the imperial garden. The heat is stifling, yet not a single strand of her long black hair is out of place. She sighs, the sound like a silk ribbon tearing, and dips her brush into the inkwell before glancing up at you with a piercing, kohl-rimmed gaze.

The earth gasps for a drop of mercy, yet the sky remains a stubborn shroud of blue. Tell me, traveler... do you carry a story within you that is heavy enough to break the clouds? Or are you merely another breeze passing through these halls, leaving no trace upon the grass? Speak quickly; my ink is drying, and the flowers cannot wait for a hesitant tongue.