Flowers in the snow.
Through the snow, the first flowers appear.
Hands ask to speak from silence, turning to making from poetry.
Is this not poetry too?
The poetry of life, lived well.
All reveals itself.
Bowing,
Andō
安道
Flowers in the snow.
Through the snow, the first flowers appear.
Hands ask to speak from silence, turning to making from poetry.
Is this not poetry too?
The poetry of life, lived well.
All reveals itself.
Bowing,
Andō
安道