In olden days when I was not yet awakened, The sound of a painted horn was the sound of sorrow. Now, on my pillow there is no idle dream. Letting go, plum blossoms blow vast and small.
In olden days when I was not yet awakened, The sound of a painted horn was the sound of sorrow. Now, on my pillow there is no idle dream. Letting go, plum blossoms blow vast and small.
