I Am One Who Eats

The Journey Itself Is My Home.

With Every Gust Of Wind, The Butterfly Changes Its Place On The Willow.

I Hope To Have Gathered To Repay Your Kindness The Willow Leaves Scattered In The Garden.

Collecting All The Rains Of May The Swift Mogami River.

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.