Sitting Quietly, Doing Nothing, Spring Comes, And

O Cricket From Your Cherry Cry No One Would Ever Guess How Quickly You Must Die.

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.

When I Speak My Lips Feel Cold - The Autumn Wind.

Year's End Still In Straw Hat And Sandals

Traveler's Heart. Never Settled Long In One Place. Like A Portable Fire.