Poverty's child - he starts to grind the rice, and gazes at the moon.
Farewell, my old fan. / Having scribbled on it, / What could I do but tear it / At the end of summer?
On a bare branch a crow is perched - autumn evening
First snow-falling-on the half-finished bridge.
Summer grasses — all that remains of great soldiers' imperial dreams.
April's air stirs in Willow-leaves...a butterfly Floats and balances