All My Friends / Viewing The Moon

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.

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

Calm And Serene The Sound Of A Cicada Penetrates The Rock.

Spring Rain Leaking Through The Roof Dripping From The Wasps' Nest.

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