Winter solitude- in a world of one colour the sound of the wind.
Not to think of yourself / as someone who did not count -- / Festival of the Souls.
On a bare branch a crow is perched - autumn evening
When composing a verse let there not be a hair's breath separating your mind from what you write; composition of a poem must be done in an instant, like a woodcutter felling a huge tree or a swordsman leaping at a dangerous enemy.
A flute with no holes is not a flute.
Calm and serene The sound of a cicada Penetrates the rock.