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

Related Topics

Children Moon Poverty Start

Bagwalas

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Every moment of life is the last, every poem is a death poem.
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How much I desire! Inside my little satchel, the moon, and flowers.
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For this lovely bowl let us arrange these flowers since there is no rice.
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Go to the object. Leave your subjective preoccupation with yourself. Do not impose yourself on the object. Become one with the object. Plunge deep enough into the object to see something like a hidden glimmering there.
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From all these trees, in the salads, the soup, everywhere, cherry blossoms fall.
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Winter garden, the moon thinned to a thread, insects singing.
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Winter solitude- in a world of one colour the sound of the wind.
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Calm and serene The sound of a cicada Penetrates the rock.
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Don’t imitate me / we are not two halves / of a muskmelon.
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First snow-falling-on the half-finished bridge.
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Sadly, I part from you; Like a clam torn from its shell, I go, and autumn too.
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Year’s end, all corners of this floating world, swept.
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