In the midst of the tourists’ clamor,  
amid stalls of food and hurried feet  
the sacred still stands —  
silent, unmoving, ageless.

I entered as a idle woman walking, 
drawn by the voice of a single chant,  
wafting like incense into the cool morning.  
At Tokoyetushidu, at Seranji, at Yata Dera,  
and at Kashu Honnoji,  
the temples welcomed all who had ears to hear.

Some gazed only through the lens,  
forgetting no picture can frame  
the true breath of the sacred.  
The halls where no photograph is allowed —  
they hold their beauty deeper still,  
beyond what can be captured in two dimensions.

These precious shrines,  
hidden in plain sight,  
your stones remember each prayer,  
your gardens embrace each silent bow.

Let our hearts become the camera,  
our breath the ink,  
our soul the page.

Memories written in reverence  
outlast any image,  
for what is sacred  
cannot be taken —  
only received.

Thus I walk on,  
carrying within me  
the unseen light.