On the Death of his Child Dew Evaporates And all our world is dew...so dear, So fresh, so fleeting
Moon, plum blossoms, this, that, and the day goes
Carrying a poppy he passes through the quarrel.
All the time I pray to Buddha I keep on killing mosquitoes.
In the city fields Contemplating cherry-trees... Strangers are like friends
The world of dew is the world of dew. And yet, and yet--