waka of budouadana: eights

Strike

Eight arrows arcing
Across the sky, their targets
Already settled,
A coordinated strike
That allows no turning back.

Ends

Everything must end,
The happy circle of friends,
The team of workers,
Its final task completed,
Each of its eight cups drained dry.

Bound

Blindfolded and bound,
In a jail of eight sharp swords,
Feeling powerless,
The young woman first accepts
Then overcomes her troubles.

Flow

Six wheels completed,
The worker diligently
Hammers the seventh
The eighth awaiting its turn,
The flow of work exalting.

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