Ever since the age of six I have had a mania for drawing the forms of objects. Towards the age of fifty I published a very large number of drawings, but I am dissatisfied with everything I produced before the age of seventy. It was at the age of seventy-three I nearly mastered the real nature and form of birds, fish, plants, etceteras.
Consequently, at the age of eighty, I shall have got to the bottom of things; at one hundred I shall have attained a decidedly higher level which I cannot define, and at the age of one hundred and ten every dot and every line from my brush will be alive. I call on those who may live as long as I to see if I keep my word.
—Hokusai
April 30, 1999
I never thought I would write
a poem using a date as the title, but...
My best friend died today.
Silently, alone, he vanished from this
and reappeared in a different realm.
You were needed to paint the flowers
which breathe into this earth,
to color intent into the sky so she
would be more than just
a reflection for the sea.
You have been asked to draw
the fragile line between hope
and despair around this world
of vanishing dreams.
For you, illusion becomes a shadow,
reality a deep red rose.
My tears, paint as snowflakes
drifting in a springtime breeze.
My sorrow, a vine covered wall.
Paint our souls as the smallest of seeds
with hearts no canvas could hold.
You had no choice, my friend,
You had to leave —
This world could no longer hold you.