Tanka:

It must be summer –

The flies press against the frame,

For just like stained glass,

Their wings flutter to escape

The very presence of light.

Tanka:

My thoughts are worn out

By how temporal is our plane;

The things that we have

In the world are all soon tossed,

One tear always bringing more.

Tanka:

All the crowds are gone,

And the street for once seems mine;

These public buildings

Left to their beauty alone –

To me and the setting sun.

_