Forehead to chin,

Her finger traces

Down hills and slopes of

Recounted tales and

Still raw wounds –

Red like the cherry blossoms

Her mothers sang and spoke to.

She stands before the mirror,

Longing to hear the silent rebuke.

It pleads her not to stand still,

Not to sit down,

Not to let those scars heal.

She, herself, will walk

Down hills and slopes

Her daughters will trace

Forehead to chin.