They cannot find his fallen corpse,
Despite the sixty-hour search.
No blood on rocks. No washed up clothes.
No shredded alligator scraps.
They call it “corpse”, though no one knows
If there’s a chance that he’s alive.
You don’t survive a fall like that.
And yet, no one is fully sure.
Except his mother, sister, “friend”,
Who have been up and down the stream
Again, again, again, again,
But not in search of any corpse.
“Why does he have to do these stunts?”
“Why does he never obey me?”
“Why always gone? He’s thirty now.”
“Why worry? He will turn up, see?”
He’s led two hundred mountain treks.
He’s conquered thirteen different peaks.
He’s climbed up breathing volcanoes.
But never up a waterfall.
His final photo shows him thrilled.
His wetsuit zipped. His helmet strapped.
And those “sawanobori shoes” –
Oh God, they look so “duplicate”.
The backpack-mounted GoPro shows
A tumble of some ninety feet –
The wet lens bouncing off a rock,
Detaching from his falling shriek.
A journal in a ziplock pouch
Inside recovered backpack reads,
To every “Why?” he did not heed.