I Felt Quite At Home,

How Much I Desire! Inside My Little Satchel, The Moon, And Flowers

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.

Come, See The True Flowers Of This Pained World.

Do Not Seek To Follow In The Footsteps Of The Wise. Seek What They Sought.

Come, Butterfly It's Late- We've Miles To Go Together.