All my friends / viewing the moon – / an ugly bunch.
Around existence twine, (Oh, bridge that hangs across the gorge!) ropes of twisted vine.
Without bitterest cold that penetrates to the very bone, how can plum blossoms send forth their fragrance all over the world?
The journey itself is my home.
The old pond, ah! A frog jumps in: The water's sound.
Winter solitude- in a world of one colour the sound of the wind.