Post good poems.

Death Poem of Hojo Ujimasa (1538-1590)

Autumn wind of eve,
Blow away the clouds that mass,
O'er the moon's pure light.
And the mists that cloud our mind,
Do thou sweep away as well.
Now we disappear,
Well, what must we think of it?
From the real world we came,
Now we may go back again,
That's at least one point of view.

Next Door,
Dude.