How I long to see among dawn flowers, the face of God.
This autumn- why am I growing old? bird disappearing among clouds.
Nothing in the cry of cicadas suggests they are about to die
I am one who eats breakfast gazing at morning glories.
When I speak My lips feel cold - The autumn wind.
Farewell, my old fan. / Having scribbled on it, / What could I do but tear it / At the end of summer?