From all these trees, in the salads, the soup, everywhere, cherry blossoms fall.

Nothing in the cry of cicadas suggests they are about to die

With every gust of wind, the butterfly changes its place on the willow.

Sitting quietly, doing nothing, Spring comes, and the grass grows, by itself.

Farewell, my old fan. / Having scribbled on it, / What could I do but tear it / At the end of summer?

A thicket of summer grass / Is all that remains / Of the dreams of ancient warriors.

Old pond, frog jumps in - plop.