The moon is brighter since the barn burned.
How I long to see among dawn flowers, the face of God.
Sitting quietly, doing nothing, Spring comes, and the grass grows, by itself.
The sea darkens And a wild duck s call Is faintly white.
Awakened at midnight by the sound of the water jar cracking from the ice
Real poetry, is to lead a beautiful life. To live poetry is better than to write it.