With every gust of wind, the butterfly changes its place on the willow.
the universe and its beings are a complementarity of empty infinity, intimate interrelationships, and total uniqueness of each and every being.
From the pine tree, learn of the pine tree; And from the bamboo, of the bamboo
The journey itself is my home.
Between our two lives there is also the life of the cherry blossom.
The basis of art is change in the universe.
How I long to see among dawn flowers, the face of God.
Go to the object. Leave your subjective preoccupation with yourself. Do not impose yourself on the object. Become one with the object. Plunge deep enough into the object to see something like a hidden glimmering there.
The moon is brighter since the barn burned.
Without bitterest cold that penetrates to the very bone, how can plum blossoms send forth their fragrance all over the world?
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.
Year by year, the monkey's mask reveals the monkey
An autumn night - don’t think your life didn’t matter.
Winter garden, the moon thinned to a thread, insects singing.
When composing a verse let there not be a hair's breath separating your mind from what you write; composition of a poem must be done in an instant, like a woodcutter felling a huge tree or a swordsman leaping at a dangerous enemy.
Seek not the paths of the ancients; Seek that which the ancients sought.
Plunge Deep enough in order to see something that is hidden and glimmering.
There came a day when the clouds drifting along with the wind aroused a wanderlust in me, and I set off on a journey to roam along the seashores
The haiku that reveals seventy to eighty percent of its subject is good. Those that reveal fifty to sixty percent, we never tire of.
How much I desire! Inside my little satchel, the moon, and flowers
Why so scrawny, cat? Starving for fat fish or mice... Or backyard love?
Winter solitude- in a world of one colour the sound of the wind.
A weathered skeleton in windy fields of memory, piercing like a knife.
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.
April's air stirs in Willow-leaves...a butterfly Floats and balances
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