The temple bell stops but I still hear the sound coming out of the flowers.
This autumn- why am I growing old? bird disappearing among clouds.
From all these trees, in the salads, the soup, everywhere, cherry blossoms fall.
Real poetry, is to lead a beautiful life. To live poetry is better than to write it.
Learn about a pine tree from a pine tree, and about a bamboo plant from a bamboo plant.
Every moment of life is the last, every poem is a death poem.