When I Speak My Lips Feel Cold

Every Day Is A Journey, And The Journey Itself Is Home.

Felling A Tree And Gazing At The Cut End - Tonight's Moon

A Flute With No Holes Is Not A Flute.

Summer Grasses — All That Remains Of Great Soldiers' Imperial Dreams.

Poverty's Child - He Starts To Grind The Rice, And Gazes At The Moon.