The Moon Is Brighter Since The Barn

Year's End, All Corners Of This Floating World, Swept.

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.

Orchidbreathing Incense Into Butterfly's Wings

On A Bare Branch A Crow Is Perched - Autumn Evening

If I Had The Knack I'd Sing Like Cherry Flakes Falling