Listen, all creeping things, the bell of transience.

On the Death of his Child Dew Evaporates And all our world is dew...so dear, So fresh, so fleeting

In the cherry blossom's shade there's no such thing as a stranger.

Here I'm here- the snow falling.

Face of the spring moon- about twelve years old, I'd say.

Red morning sky - snail, are you glad of it?

Even with insects - some can sing, some can't.