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

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.

Summer grasses, All that remainsOf soldiers' dreams

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.

Cleanliness beings with purity of your own mind, thoughts and heart.

Dad was the glue to the broken pieces of our family.

How much a dunce that has been sent to roam Excels a dunce that has been kept at home!

You are so much more, than your orientation, you know it and I know it.

His words are the essence of truth...Jesus never uttered opinions. He never guessed; He knew, and He knows.

The idea of trying to predict what people will or won't respond to is risky.

Let ignorance reproduce itself until it is weary of its own offspring.

Good ideas need good strategy to realize their potential.

I came to believe that being a private detective was the work I was meant to do.

Force cannot give right.