Winter Garden, The Moon Thinned To A

Collecting All The Rains Of May The Swift Mogami River.

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

The Journey Itself Is My Home.

Without Bitterest Cold That Penetrates To The Very Bone, How Can Plum Blossoms Send Forth Their Fragrance All Over The World?

The Desire To Break The Silence With Constant Human Noise Is, I Believe, Precisely An Avoidance Of The Sacred Terror Of That Divine Encounter.