Orchidbreathing Incense Into Butterfly's Wings

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

Farewell, My Old Fan. / Having Scribbled On It, / What Could I Do But Tear It / At The End Of Summer?

Traveler's Heart. Never Settled Long In One Place. Like A Portable Fire.

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

First Snow-falling-on The Half-finished Bridge.