The Temple Bell Stops But I Still

Year's End, All Corners Of This Floating World, Swept.

The Journey Itself Is My Home.

When Composing A Verse Let There Not Be A Hair's Breath Separating Your Mind From What You Write; Composition Of A Poem Must Be Done In An Instant, Like A Woodcutter Felling A Huge Tree Or A Swordsman Leaping At A Dangerous Enemy.

The Moon And Sun Are Travelers Through Eternity. Even The Years Wander On. Whether Drifting Through Life On A Boat Or Climbing Toward Old Age Leading A Horse, Each Day Is A Journey, And The Journey Itself Is Home.

The Desire To Break The Silence With Constant Human Noise Is, I Believe, Precisely An Avoidance Of The Sacred Terror Of That Divine Encounter.