Summer Grasses — All That Remains Of

Farewell, My Old Fan. / Having Scribbled On It, / What Could I Do But Tear It / At The End Of Summer?

A Thicket Of Summer Grass / Is All That Remains / Of The Dreams Of Ancient Warriors.

Clapping My Hands With The Echoes The Summer Moon Begins To Dawn.

O Cricket From Your Cherry Cry No One Would Ever Guess How Quickly You Must Die.

Between Our Two Lives There Is Also The Life Of The Cherry Blossom.