From all these trees, in the salads, the soup, everywhere, cherry blossoms fall.
Sitting quietly, doing nothing, Spring comes, and the grass grows, by itself.
April's air stirs in Willow-leaves...a butterfly Floats and balances
A flute with no holes is not a flute.
Real poetry, is to lead a beautiful life. To live poetry is better than to write it.
Come, butterfly It's late- We've miles to go together.