Where there are humans, You'll find flies, And Buddhas.
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
Carrying a poppy he passes through the quarrel.
Dry creek glimpsed by lightning
In the city fields Contemplating cherry-trees... Strangers are like friends