Farewell, my old fan. / Having scribbled on it, / What could I do but tear it / At the end of summer?
Collecting all The rains of May The swift Mogami River.
How much I desire! Inside my little satchel, the moon, and flowers
Come, see the true flowers of this pained world.
When I speak My lips feel cold - The autumn wind.
Awakened at midnight by the sound of the water jar cracking from the ice