Every moment of life is the last, every poem is a death poem.
Along my journey / through this transitory world, / new year's housecleaning.
Even in Kyoto/Hearing the cuckoo's cry/I long for Kyoto
The temple bell stops but I still hear the sound coming out of the flowers.
First snow-falling-on the half-finished bridge.
Not to think of yourself / as someone who did not count -- / Festival of the Souls.