When all thoughtsAre exhaustedI slip into the woodsAnd gatherA pile of shepherd’s purse.Like the little streamMaking its wayThrough the mossy crevicesI, too, quietlyTurn clear and transparent.

When all thoughtsAre exhaustedI slip into the woodsAnd gatherA pile of shepherd’s purse.Like the little streamMaking its wayThrough the mossy crevicesI, too, quietlyTurn clear and transparent.

– Ryōkan –

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