O Cricket From Your Cherry Cry No

Around Existence Twine, (oh, Bridge That Hangs Across The Gorge!) Ropes Of Twisted Vine.

From The Pine Tree, Learn Of The Pine Tree; And From The Bamboo, Of The Bamboo

When Your Consciousness Has Become Ripe In True Zazen-pure Like Clear Water, Like A Serene Mountain Lake, Not Moved By Any Wind-then Anything May Serve As A Medium For Realization.

April's Air Stirs In Willow-leaves...a Butterfly Floats And Balances

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.