I am one who eats breakfast gazing at morning glories.
A thicket of summer grass / Is all that remains / Of the dreams of ancient warriors.
The desire to break the silence with constant human noise is, I believe, precisely an avoidance of the sacred terror of that divine encounter.
Poverty's child - he starts to grind the rice, and gazes at the moon.
From all these trees, in the salads, the soup, everywhere, cherry blossoms fall.
Mountain-rose petals Falling, falling, falling now... Waterfall music