A Weathered Skeleton In Windy Fields Of

I Am One Who Eats Breakfast Gazing At Morning Glories.

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

Farewell, My Old Fan. / Having Scribbled On It, / What Could I Do But Tear It / At The End Of Summer?

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

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