Traveler's heart. Never settled long in one place. Like a portable fire.
How I long to see among dawn flowers, the face of God.
Without bitterest cold that penetrates to the very bone, how can plum blossoms send forth their fragrance all over the world?
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.
From the pine tree, learn of the pine tree; And from the bamboo, of the bamboo
the universe and its beings are a complementarity of empty infinity, intimate interrelationships, and total uniqueness of each and every being.
With every gust of wind, the butterfly changes its place on the willow.
Year by year, the monkey's mask reveals the monkey
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.
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
Seek not the paths of the ancients; Seek that which the ancients sought.
An autumn night - don’t think your life didn’t matter.
The moon is brighter since the barn burned.
The journey itself is my home.
The haiku that reveals seventy to eighty percent of its subject is good. Those that reveal fifty to sixty percent, we never tire of.
Between our two lives there is also the life of the cherry blossom.
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.
Plunge Deep enough in order to see something that is hidden and glimmering.
A weathered skeleton in windy fields of memory, piercing like a knife.
Winter solitude- in a world of one colour the sound of the wind.
Why so scrawny, cat? Starving for fat fish or mice... Or backyard love?
Winter garden, the moon thinned to a thread, insects singing.
How much I desire! Inside my little satchel, the moon, and flowers
I am one who eats breakfast gazing at morning glories.
Orchidbreathing incense into butterfly's wings
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