A haiku for someone you love, on a keepsake worth keeping.
Tell us about them. We shape seventeen syllables that say it well, render them on a two-page PDF — the verse on the first page, a Certificate of Verse on the second — and deliver it in minutes. Yours forever.
Each step is necessary; none is hurried.
A short conversation. Tell us of the recipient, the occasion, the feeling. Speak plainly; we are good listeners.
Seventeen syllables, weighed against the season and the heart. We propose; you revise. We won't deliver a verse you don't love.
Two pages of paper, made of light. The haiku, set on the first page. The Certificate of Verse, sealed in wax on the second.
Save it, print it, frame it, attach it to a note. The post is now electric — but the keeping, the keeping is the same.
Names changed, sentiments unaltered. The PDF you receive looks like this.
Seventeen syllables is enough. More is noise; less is mumble. We won't pretend a machine alone writes good poetry — the conversation with you is half the work. Up to ten rounds of revision come with every verse — in our experience, more than enough for the words to settle like a key in a lock.
And then the second page. The Certificate of Verse bears your name, the recipient's name, the date, our seal, and a short attestation: that the two of you, together with Haikard, condensed a feeling into seventeen syllables of consequence. Print it. Frame it. Send the PDF anywhere a love letter might be received.
A short, incomplete list. Yours need not appear.
A modest sum for a small, lasting thing. No subscriptions you can't leave.
One haiku. One two-page PDF. For when the occasion is itself.