Clapping My Hands With The Echoes The

How Much I Desire! Inside My Little Satchel, The Moon, And Flowers

Year By Year, The Monkey's Mask Reveals The Monkey

The Temple Bell Stops But I Still Hear The Sound Coming Out Of The Flowers.

The Haiku That Reveals Seventy To Eighty Percent Of Its Subject Is Good. Those That Reveal Fifty To Sixty Percent, We Never Tire Of.

My Body, Now Close To Fifty Years Of Age, Has Become An Old Tree That Bears Bitter Peaches, A Snail Which Has Lost Its Shell, A Bagworm Separated From Its Bag; It Drifts With The Winds And Clouds That Know No Destination. Morning And Night I Have Eaten Traveler's Fare, And Have Held Out For Alms A Pilgrim's Wallet.