HE WHO DOES good comes to the temple gate,
he who loves reaches the shrine.

DAY BY DAY I float my paper boats one by one down the running stream.
In big black letters I write my name on them and the name of the village where I live.
I hope that someone in some strange land will find them and know who I am.
I load my little boats with shiuli flowers from our garden, and hope that these blooms of the dawn will be carried safely to land in the night.
I launch my paper boats and look up into the sky and see the little clouds setting their white bulging sails.
I know not what playmate of mine in the sky sends them down the air to race with my boats!
When night comes I bury my face in my arms and dream that my paper boats float on and on under the midnight stars.
The fairies of sleep are sailing in them, and the lading is their baskets full of dreams.

WHY ARE THOSE tears in your eyes, my child?
How horrid of them to be always scolding you for nothing?
You have stained your fingers and face with ink while writing-is that why they call you dirty?
O, fie! Would they dare to call the full moon dirty because it has smudged its face with ink?
For every little trifle they blame you, my child. They are ready to find fault for nothing.
You tore your clothes while playing-is that why they call you untidy?
O, fie! What would they call an autumn morning that smiles through its ragged clouds?
Take no heed of what they say to you, my child.
They make a long list of your misdeeds.
Everybody knows how you love sweet things-is that why they call you greedy?
O, fie! What then would they call us who love you?