Clapping my hands with the echoes the summer moon begins to dawn.
Sadly, I part from you; Like a clam torn from its shell, I go, and autumn too.
Around existence twine, (Oh, bridge that hangs across the gorge!) ropes of twisted vine.
The temple bell stops but I still hear the sound coming out of the flowers.
When composing a verse let there not be a hair's breath separating your mind from what you write; composition of a poem must be done in an instant, like a woodcutter felling a huge tree or a swordsman leaping at a dangerous enemy.
There came a day when the clouds drifting along with the wind aroused a wanderlust in me, and I set off on a journey to roam along the seashores