Real poetry, is to lead a beautiful life. To live poetry is better than to write it.
Harvest moon: around the pond I wander and the night is gone.
Farewell, my old fan. / Having scribbled on it, / What could I do but tear it / At the end of summer?
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
This autumn- why am I growing old? bird disappearing among clouds.
Seek on high bare trails Sky-reflecting violets... Mountain-top jewels