Come, see the true flowers of this pained world.
Real poetry, is to lead a beautiful life. To live poetry is better than to write it.
Winter solitude- in a world of one colour the sound of the wind.
Sitting quietly, doing nothing, Spring comes, and the grass grows, by itself.
Come, butterfly It's late- We've miles to go together.
The moon and sun are travelers through eternity. Even the years wander on. Whether drifting through life on a boat or climbing toward old age leading a horse, each day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.