Even when a river of tears courses through this body, the flame of love cannot be quenched.

In love longing I listen to the monk's bell. I will never forget you even for an interval short as those between the bell notes.

Come quickly -- as soon as these blossoms open, they fall. This world exists as a sheen of dew on flowers.

Watching the moon at midnight, solitary, mid-sky, I knew myself completely, no part left out.

Although I try / to hold the single thought / of Buddha's teaching in my heart, / I cannot help but hear / the many crickets' voices calling as well.

Rather than recallin these flowersthe fragrance of the past,I would like to hear this nightingale's voice,to know if his song is as sweet.

The one close to me now; even my own body--these too will soon become clouds, floating in different directions.