Not To Think Of Yourself / As

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.

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

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

An Autumn Night - Don’t Think Your Life Didn’t Matter.

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