Poverty's child - he starts to grind the rice, and gazes at the moon.
The sea darkens And a wild duck s call Is faintly white.
How much I desire! Inside my little satchel, the moon, and flowers
Learn how to listen as things speak for themselves.
I am one who eats breakfast gazing at morning glories.
Without bitterest cold that penetrates to the very bone, how can plum blossoms send forth their fragrance all over the world?