Spring Rain Leaking Through The

Year By Year, The Monkey's Mask Reveals The Monkey

In This Poor Body, Composed Of One Hundred Bones And Nine Openings, Is Something Called Spirit, A Flimsy Curtain Swept This Way And That By The Slightest Breeze. It Is Spirit, Such As It Is, Which Led Me To Poetry, At First Little More Than A Pastime, Then The Full Business Of My Life. There Have Been Times When My Spirit, So Dejected, Almost Gave Up The Quest, Other Times When It Was Proud, Triumphant. So It Has Been From The Very Start, Never Finding Peace With Itself, Always Doubting The Worth Of What It Makes.

When I Speak My Lips Feel Cold - The Autumn Wind.

Fresh Spring! / The World Is Only Nine Days Old - / These Fields And Mountains!

Every Moment Of Life Is The Last, Every Poem Is A Death Poem.