Sakura

A Springtime game was Sakura. In the late winter chill we would cut
branches of cherry blossom, the pink brilliant against the snow or
dull brown of the thawing mud. We were each samurai, young beautiful
men, Bishonen, born to live and die in transient splendor. Our lord
would send us on missions, scaling cliffs of fire, rescuing frost
maidens.

When we accomplished our task, we would strike the branch to
see how many blossoms would fall. If many, our fame would exceed the
glory of the sun, and the cost to our hearts would be as great: our
lover lost in the fire, our Daimyo cursed by the crystal Queen. If
few petals fell, our lives and our comrades were safe, and our task
become mundane, unbeautiful. A peasant sweeps his hut, a dog barks, no one is there.