Every Moment Of Life Is The Last,

Spring Rain Conveyed Under The Trees In Drops.

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.

Twilight Whippoorwill... Whistle On, Sweet Deepener Of Dark Loneliness

Just Washed, How Chill The White Leeks!

A Flute With No Holes Is Not A Flute.