Winter solitude- in a world of one colour the sound of the wind.
Twilight whippoorwill... Whistle on, sweet deepener Of dark loneliness
Poverty's child - he starts to grind the rice, and gazes at the moon.
Farewell, my old fan. / Having scribbled on it, / What could I do but tear it / At the end of summer?
Felling a tree and gazing at the cut end - tonight's moon
There came a day when the clouds drifting along with the wind aroused a wanderlust in me, and I set off on a journey to roam along the seashores