Clapping My Hands With The Echoes The

Spring Rain Leaking Through The Roof Dripping From The Wasps' Nest.

Poverty's Child - He Starts To Grind The Rice, And Gazes At The Moon.

All My Friends / Viewing The Moon – / An Ugly Bunch.

Sitting Quietly, Doing Nothing, Spring Comes, And The Grass Grows, By Itself.

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