Come, Butterfly It's Late- We've Miles To

A Flute With No Holes Is Not A Flute.

Spring Rain Conveyed Under The Trees In Drops.

Poverty's Child - He Starts To Grind The Rice, And Gazes At The Moon.

Orchidbreathing Incense Into Butterfly's Wings

I Am One Who Eats Breakfast Gazing At Morning Glories.