Farewell, my old fan. / Having scribbled on it, / What could I do but tear it / At the end of summer?
Real poetry, is to lead a beautiful life. To live poetry is better than to write it.
On a bare branch a crow is perched - autumn evening
Between our two lives there is also the life of the cherry blossom.
Mountain-rose petals Falling, falling, falling now... Waterfall music
Twilight whippoorwill... Whistle on, sweet deepener Of dark loneliness