Sitting quietly, doing nothing, Spring comes, and the grass grows, by itself.

From all these trees, in the salads, the soup, everywhere, cherry blossoms fall.

Spring rain leaking through the roof dripping from the wasps' nest.

Summer grasses — all that remains of great soldiers' imperial dreams.

I felt quite at home, / As if it were mine sleeping lazily / In this house of fresh air.

Real poetry, is to lead a beautiful life. To live poetry is better than to write it.

Every moment of life is the last, every poem is a death poem.