Spring rain leaking through the roof dripping from the wasps' nest.
When I speak My lips feel cold - The autumn wind.
April's air stirs in Willow-leaves...a butterfly Floats and balances
Every moment of life is the last, every poem is a death poem.
Poverty's child - he starts to grind the rice, and gazes at the moon.
Around existence twine, (Oh, bridge that hangs across the gorge!) ropes of twisted vine.