Every Day Is A Journey, And The

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

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

Awakened At Midnight By The Sound Of The Water Jar Cracking From The Ice

Winter Solitude- In A World Of One Colour The Sound Of The Wind.

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