The Journey Itself Is My Home.

Even In Kyoto/hearing The Cuckoo's Cry/i Long For Kyoto

Nothing In The Cry Of Cicadas Suggests They Are About To Die

Winter Solitude- In A World Of One Colour The Sound Of The Wind.

Winter Garden, The Moon Thinned To A Thread, Insects Singing.

A Flute With No Holes Is Not A Flute.