After the end,
we imagined together
how the fine paintbrush
would redeploy the essence
which was visible
at that moment.
And we saw the brushstroke
in a new way.
Its work was rather simple.
Essence should be everywhere.
Like stones of life on the goban.
Like sand which had the trace
of the sacred sword.
The paper was filled
with the deep essence
and its memory kept it.
The precious gift of life
had changed its nature.
It was no more an empty page
but the score of our symphony.