waka of budouadana: sevens

Stand

One man versus six,
He makes his hilltop stand,
Bravely facing those
Who would supplant him by force,
His staff no better than theirs.

Options

Each of seven flasks
Holds a unique heady brew,
A different future
In each dreamy concoction:
Paralysis of options.

Outsider

The outsider leaves
The parade of daily life,
Briefly looking back,
Bearing seven silver swords
As if he could defeat death.

Blessings

The farmer pauses
For seven golden minutes
To smell sweet onions,
Lean upon his wooden hoe,
And count his many blessings.

(ifn ye wonta make a comment, ye gut to click on 'link' below.)