Awakened At Midnight By The Sound Of

April's Air Stirs In Willow-leaves...a Butterfly Floats And Balances

Come, See The True Flowers Of This Pained World.

Real Poetry, Is To Lead A Beautiful Life. To Live Poetry Is Better Than To Write It.

There Came A Day When The Clouds Drifting Along With The Wind Aroused A Wanderlust In Me, And I Set Off On A Journey To Roam Along The Seashores

Seek Not The Paths Of The Ancients; Seek That Which The Ancients Sought.