Summer grasses, All that remainsOf soldiers' dreams

Real poetry, is to lead a beautiful life. To live poetry is better than to write it.

Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.

The journey itself is my home.

This autumn-why am I growing old?bird disappearing among clouds.

Dead my old fine hopesAnd dry my dreaming but still...Iris, blue each spring

Winter solitude-in a world of one colourthe sound of the wind.

Describe plum-blossoms?Better than my verses...whiteWordless Butterflies

Not knowing the name of the tree, I stood in the floodof its sweet scent.

It is only a barbarous mind that sees other than the flower, merely an animal mind that dreams of other than the moon.

On this roadwhere nobody else travelsautumn nightfall.

Let it rain on some days, Let yourself shiver on some cold nights, So when it's Spring you'll know why it was all worth going through.

The sky is a blue so clean it verges on joy.

The revolution has no leader, I said. It was more like a raging wild horse that would buck anyone who tried to mount it against its will.

There are many amazing female directors that made work in more skewed times, so we should be thankful for the boundaries they pushed through.

Drank a lot of take home pay.

The Word we study has to be the Word we pray.

I was just sick of being fat, you know? You get sick of it. It just really, it's a tiring lifestyle to have.

I must be doing something right. I've been around for a long time.

Should we be mindful of dreams?" Joseph asked. "Can we interpret them?" The Master looked into his eyes and said tersely: "We should be mindful of everything, for we can interpret everything.

The older you get, the more yourself you can be and the less worried you are about what other people think.