How I Long To See Among Dawn

I Am One Who Eats Breakfast Gazing At Morning Glories.

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

The Temple Bell Stops But I Still Hear The Sound Coming Out Of The Flowers.

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.

The Haiku That Reveals Seventy To Eighty Percent Of Its Subject Is Good. Those That Reveal Fifty To Sixty Percent, We Never Tire Of.