Winter solitude- in a world of one colour the sound of the wind.
Old dark sleepy pool... Quick unexpected frog Goes plop! Watersplash!
The temple bell stops but I still hear the sound coming out of the flowers.
Every moment of life is the last, every poem is a death poem.
The desire to break the silence with constant human noise is, I believe, precisely an avoidance of the sacred terror of that divine encounter.
How much I desire! Inside my little satchel, the moon, and flowers