Nothing In The Cry Of Cicadas Suggests

My Body, Now Close To Fifty Years Of Age, Has Become An Old Tree That Bears Bitter Peaches, A Snail Which Has Lost Its Shell, A Bagworm Separated From Its Bag; It Drifts With The Winds And Clouds That Know No Destination. Morning And Night I Have Eaten Traveler's Fare, And Have Held Out For Alms A Pilgrim's Wallet.

Old Pond, Leap-splash - A Frog.

A Thicket Of Summer Grass / Is All That Remains / Of The Dreams Of Ancient Warriors.

Orchidbreathing Incense Into Butterfly's Wings

Every Day Is A Journey, And The Journey Itself Is Home.