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

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Nothing in the cry of cicadas suggests they are about to die.
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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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Come, butterfly It’s late- We’ve miles to go together.
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Breaking the silence Of an ancient pond, A frog jumped into water – A deep resonance.
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For this lovely bowl let us arrange these flowers since there is no rice.
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Old pond, leap-splash – a frog.
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The haiku that reveals seventy to eighty percent of its subject is good. Those that reveal fifty to sixty percent, we never tire of.
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Year by year, the monkey’s mask reveals the monkey.
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The temple bell stops but I still hear the sound coming out of the flowers.
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Calm and serene The sound of a cicada Penetrates the rock.
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Winter garden, the moon thinned to a thread, insects singing.
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Fresh spring! / The world is only Nine days old – / These fields and mountains!
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Age Fresh Mountain Nature Spring Time World
Go to the pine if you want to learn about the pine, or to the bamboo if you want to learn about the bamboo. And in doing so, you must leave your subjective preoccupation with yourself. Otherwise you impose yourself on the object and you do not learn.
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A flute with no holes is not a flute.
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Old pond, frog jumps in – plop.
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Come out to view / the truth of flowers blooming / in poverty.
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