“Every moment of life is the last, every poem is a death poem.”

The temple bell stops but I still hear the sound coming out of the flowers.

Winter garden, the moon thinned to a thread, insects singing.

Between our two lives there is also the life of the cherry blossom.

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.

Come out to view / the truth of flowers blooming / in poverty.

Fresh spring! / The world is only Nine days old – / These fields and mountains!

Collecting all The rains of May The swift Mogami River.

Spring rain conveyed under the trees in drops.

The basis of art is change in the universe.

Make the universe your companion, always bearing in mind the true nature of things-mountains and rivers, trees and grasses, and humanity-and enjoy the falling blossoms and the scattering leaves.

Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.

The sea darkens And a wild duck s call Is faintly white.

Friends part forever wild geese lost in cloud.

Sitting quietly, doing nothing, Spring comes, and the grass grows, by itself.

Felling a tree and gazing at the cut end – tonight’s moon.

Poverty’s child – he starts to grind the rice, and gazes at the moon.

As you die continually when living. So do you live continually when dead; if not in this body, then in a body of another form.

Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

The best moments can’t be preconceived. I’ve spent a lot of time in editing rooms, and a scene can be technically perfect, with perfect delivery and facial expression and timing, and you remember all your lines, and it is dead.

By the time you swear you’re his, Shivering and sighing. And he vows his passion is, Infinite, undying. Lady make note of this — One of you is lying.

I will be dead in a few months. But it hasn’t given me the slightest anxiety or worry. I always knew I was going to die.

Outside the street’s on fire in a real death waltz between what’s flesh and what’s fantasy.

I don’t have any favourite lyrics. Honestly, all of them I love ’em to death – it’s the same with songs. I don’t have just one favourite lyric, I love them all.

No one asks how to motivate a baby. A baby naturally explores everything it can get at, unless restraining forces have already been at work. And this tendency doesn’t die out, it’s wiped out.