Spring Rain Conveyed Under The Trees In

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.

Sadly, I Part From You; Like A Clam Torn From Its Shell, I Go, And Autumn Too.

If I Had The Knack I'd Sing Like Cherry Flakes Falling

Along My Journey / Through This Transitory World, / New Year's Housecleaning.

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