Come, see the true flowers of this pained world.
Every moment of life is the last, every poem is a death poem.
Sitting quietly, doing nothing, Spring comes, and the grass grows, by itself.
The old pond, ah! A frog jumps in: The water's sound.
Operating superficially, the mind is random in its activity and stale in its insights and images. However, with practice and experience the mind is freed from the skull, and the fresh and new can appear as though for the first time. It
Along my journey / through this transitory world, / new year's housecleaning.