There Is Nothing You Can See That

This Autumn- Why Am I Growing Old? Bird Disappearing Among Clouds.

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 Conveyed Under The Trees In Drops.

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

When I Speak My Lips Feel Cold - The Autumn Wind.