The temple bell stops but I still hear the sound coming out of the flowers.
Around existence twine, (Oh, bridge that hangs across the gorge!) ropes of twisted vine.
With every gust of wind, the butterfly changes its place on the willow.
I am one who eats breakfast gazing at morning glories.
The journey itself is my home.
Mountain-rose petals Falling, falling, falling now... Waterfall music