A Thicket Of Summer Grass / Is

Every Moment Of Life Is The Last, Every Poem Is A Death Poem.

Operating Superficially, The Mind Is Random In Its Activity And Stale In Its Insights And Images. However, With Practice And Experience The Mind Is Freed From The Skull, And The Fresh And New Can Appear As Though For The First Time. It

From All These Trees, In The Salads, The Soup, Everywhere, Cherry Blossoms Fall.

When Composing A Verse Let There Not Be A Hair's Breath Separating Your Mind From What You Write; Composition Of A Poem Must Be Done In An Instant, Like A Woodcutter Felling A Huge Tree Or A Swordsman Leaping At A Dangerous Enemy.

A Flute With No Holes Is Not A Flute.