Winter Solitude- In A World

Winter Garden, The Moon Thinned To A Thread, Insects Singing.

All My Friends / Viewing The Moon – / An Ugly Bunch.

First Snow-falling-on The Half-finished Bridge.

Come, See The True Flowers Of This Pained World.

My Body, Now Close To Fifty Years Of Age, Has Become An Old Tree That Bears Bitter Peaches, A Snail Which Has Lost Its Shell, A Bagworm Separated From Its Bag; It Drifts With The Winds And Clouds That Know No Destination. Morning And Night I Have Eaten Traveler's Fare, And Have Held Out For Alms A Pilgrim's Wallet.