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

Clapping my hands with the echoes the summer moon begins to dawn.

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

Poverty's child - he starts to grind the rice, and gazes at the moon.

I felt quite at home, / As if it were mine sleeping lazily / In this house of fresh air.

The basis of art is change in the universe.

Learn the rules, and then forget them.