Haiga Archive

So holy a place—
the snow itself is scented
at Southern Valley

The summer grasses—
of brave soldiers’ dreams
the aftermath

The peaks of clouds
have crumbled into fragments—
the moonlit mountain!

Today I shall wipe out
the words written in my hat
with the dew of tears

How lonely it is!
even lonelier than Suma,
autumn at this beach.

The seventh month—
even the sixth does not seem,
like a usual night.

Alas for mortality!
underneath the helmet
a grasshopper