black
grey
blue
red
brown
white

Nothing in the cry of cicadas suggests they are about to die.

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How much I desire! Inside my little satchel, the moon, and flowers.
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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.
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The temple bell stops but I still hear the sound coming out of the flowers.
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I am one who eats breakfast gazing at morning glories.
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This autumn- why am I growing old? bird disappearing among clouds.
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