"Miko-sama, what have you dreamed?"

They ask the question as I feel

the images pass before me

A flurry of colors

And I speak,

words rolling from my tongue

dropping, dropping,

It feels liquid

As if the words had formed

into beads of water;

they softly pool at my hands

neatly folded in my lap

The white masks nod

as the last words leave my lips,

and then white hands slip

dark lacquered sandals

upon my feet

I rise from my bed and the heels

thump against the tatami mat