Not to think of yourself / as someone who did not count -- / Festival of the Souls.
A thicket of summer grass / Is all that remains / Of the dreams of ancient warriors.
The sea darkens And a wild duck s call Is faintly white.
Old pond, frog jumps in - plop.
The desire to break the silence with constant human noise is, I believe, precisely an avoidance of the sacred terror of that divine encounter.
Winter solitude- in a world of one colour the sound of the wind.