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.

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.