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

All the time I pray to Buddha I keep on killing mosquitoes.

before the gate -- my walking stick's made a river of melting snow

In the city fields Contemplating cherry-trees... Strangers are like friends

Listen, all creeping things, the bell of transience.

Reflected in the dragonfly's eye -- mountains.

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