The Journey Itself Is My Home.

Spring Rain Leaking Through The Roof Dripping From The Wasps' Nest.

Old Pond, Leap-splash - A Frog.

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.

Go To The Pine If You Want To Learn About The Pine, Or To The Bamboo If You Want To Learn About The Bamboo. And In Doing So, You Must Leave Your Subjective Preoccupation With Yourself. Otherwise You Impose Yourself On The Object And You Do Not Learn.

Do Not Resemble Me-never Be Like A Musk Melon Cut In Two Identical Halves.