 I will present some Japanese poetry called haiku. First, I will fingerspell the words, and then I will act out the poem in what we call Sign Mime. Fireworks ended, and spectators gone away. Ah, how still and dark. Fireworks shooting to the sky, exploding, bursting, colorful, high in the sky. Boom, boom, they go off. Explosions everywhere, sparks making their way down to the earth and the people watching and seeing the fireworks fade and end. To the left and to the right, the show has concluded. The darkness has returned. Butterfly asleep, folded, soft on a temple bell. Then the bronze gong rang. I see a butterfly in the distance, flying, flapping its wings up and down, flapping over and over again. And then it comes down and sets itself with the wings slowly coming to an end with the flapping. And the gong of the bell ringing, the butterfly awakening and flying once again, flapping its wings. Fastball from the mound connects and blots out the sun, leaving darkness there. And the pitcher warms up, looks for the call he wants, gets the call from the catcher and the sun behind the picture, beaming its rays on the field. And the pitcher winds up and lets the ball rip. The ball's hit high in the sky as the pitcher follows the trajectory of the ball. It's a saddening world, flowers whose sweet bloom must fall as we too. Alas, the earth before us ever turning, and we see the flowers whose sweet aroma springs forth, and the blooms from the flowers grow, but eventually they lose their life. And they fall back to the earth, whether it's the flower or myself. Next title will be a poem by Robert Frost, entitled, Stopping by Woods on a snowy evening, riding along on a horse and carriage. I stop the horses and look out whose woods these are. I think I know his house is in the village though. He will not see me stopping here to watch his woods fill up with snow. The little horse must think it's queer to stop without a farmhouse near between the woods and frozen lake. The darkest evening of the year, he gives his harness bells a shake to ask if there is some mistake. The only other sounds, the sweep of easy wind and downy flakes. A lovely have promises to keep and miles to go. Before I sleep and miles to go before I sleep. Next title will be a poem by Robert Burns, A Red, Red Rose. O my loves like a red, red rose that's newly sprung in June. O my loves like the melody that's sweetly played in tune. As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, so deep in love am I. And I will love thee still, my dear, till all the seas gang dry. Till all the seas gang dry, my dear, and the rocks melt with the sun. And I will love thee still, my dear, while the sands of life shall run. And fair thee, we, my only love, and fair thee, we'll a while. And I will come again, my love, though it were ten thousand mile. Next title will be that old favorite, our national anthem, Star Spangled Banner. O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, What so proudly we hail at the twilight's last gleaming. Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight, over the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming. And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, gave proof through the night that our flag was still there. O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave over the land of the free and the home of the brave. The next title will be an excerpt from William Shakespeare's play, Julius Caesar. Remember, in that play, Brutus and his group plotted to murder Caesar. After that murder, Caesar's best friend, Mark Anthony, was very grieved. The next day, the body of murdered Caesar lies in open state. During that time, all the people of Rome attended the public forum. Brutus stands up and lectures, giving his reasons why he felt that it was necessary to murder Caesar. He says it was because Caesar had become more and more bigheaded. Hard-hearted, very ambitious, craved for power, wanted more and more things. He wanted to become like a dictator, and Brutus says that he killed Caesar. Not because I love Caesar less, but because I loved Rome more. All the people applaud at Brutus and agree he is right, good, noble, wonderful Brutus, wonderful. Then Mark Anthony, who was standing, asks Brutus if he can say a few words. Brutus nods and welcomes him, and Brutus leaves. Now, in this play at that precise scene, Mark Anthony walks into the forum. Friends, Romans, Countrymen, lend me your ears. I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. That evil that men do lives after them. The good is often turned with their bones. So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus hath told you Caesar was ambitious. If it were so, it was a grievous fault, and grievously hath Caesar answered it. Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest, honorable men come, I to speak in Caesar's funeral. He was my friend, faithful and just to me. But Brutus says he was ambitious, and Brutus is an honorable man. He hath brought many captives home to Rome, whose ransoms did the general coffers fill. Did this in Caesar seem ambitious? Yet Brutus says he was ambitious, and Brutus is an honorable man. When, that the poor hath cried, Caesar hath wept. Was this ambition? Ambition should be made of sterner stuff. Yet Brutus says he was ambitious, and Brutus is an honorable man. You all did see that on the looper call. I thrice presented him a kingly crown, which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition? Yet Brutus says he was ambitious, and sure, he is an honorable man. I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, but here I am to speak what I do know. You all did love him once, not without cause. What causes withhold you then to mourn for him? O judgment, thou art fled to Brutus' beast, and men have lost their reason. Bear with me. My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, and I must pause till it comes back to me. The last title will be a poem that I myself once wrote entitled On His Deafness. My ears are deaf, and yet I seem to hear sweet nature's music and the songs of man. For I have learned from fancy's artisan how written words can thrill the inner ear, just as they move the heart. And so for me, they also seem to ring out loud and free. In silent study, I have learned to tell each secret shade of meaning and to hear a magic harmony at once sincere that somehow notes the tinkle of a bell, the cooing of a dove, the swish of leaves. The raindrops pitter patter on the eaves, the lover's sigh, and the thrumming of guitar. And if I choose, the Russell of a Star.