The Basis Of Art Is Change In

Mountain-rose Petals Falling, Falling, Falling Now... Waterfall Music

Learn The Rules, And Then Forget Them.

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.

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

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