I used to live at the barrier of Fuha,
In my penthouse I would stay,
Stoking the fire throughout the winter,
Cold travellers would enter.

To tell their tales over a bowl
Of hot soup and a bottle of sake,
Like moths to th' moon they where drawn,
By smoke from the chimney.

Whether surrounded by naked tress and snow,
Or in pink hues of cherry blossoms,
My home stood perfectly still.
Alas that was long ago.

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This poem was inspired by

No one lives at the barrier of Fuha,
The wooden penthouse is fallen away,
All that remains --
Is the autumn wind.