The last glow of the of the harsh afternoon sun fades on the recently plowed fields. 
With the soft whisper of cicadas echoing along the edges of the Minka,
two women start a game.
For this game, they need the knowledge of an elephant, the speed of a fox,
and the concentration of a tortoise.
In this game, stories and words of those who are gone are shared and recalled.
Hyakunin Isshu Karuta is its name—meaning 100 poems by 100 poets.

The women lay cards on the mat, measuring and mapping the distance of the squares.
Each woman's eyes trace the cards, painted and polished with fine colors and hues.
Despite the beautiful orientation, it is like Martial arts—each slap of the hand on a card is carefully thought out and articulated.
Quickly, the cards disappear into messy piles, scattered.
The sound of slapping increases, but is soon met by a sharp pound,
and then stops forever.

The pale, silver moon emerges on the inky canvas of the night sky.
Each card has been collected and put away,
but their stories and words remain.
The women step outside into the heavy and humid evening air with their lanterns,
the earth and trees of their garden welcome and gingerly embrace them.
They whisper to each other as the light and let go of their lanterns.
The night sky gladly accepts the lanterns as if they were stars while the women walk inside.