A Wandering Ronin

The moss-ridden stones,
The fangs of the Omikami.
Silence.
A fragile treasure of the divine. 
Quiet.
The sound of rain overhead,
In the midst of battle. 

Maple leaves.
The orange monarch and the soft yellow.
Where the sakura blooms flow 
down the stream runs slow. 
Where my homeland stands, 
And the leaves crisp under my feet.

What is home?
I therefore, would not know.
As the life of a wandering Ronin;
Under the sakura
And above the aquamarine water below.
Pared with the whistle of the leaf.
As the wind blows.