By her sweat muddy, bathing no bath, with her perfume.
The putting a bowl on her head, a hyoutan-tsugi, a gourd with patchworks, bitting at.
An arm floating, a corpse of lotus is it, couldn't see Claude Monet.
To knit a ridge stitch, to eat a dream.
A drop of her sweat, running along straitly, le grand ecart.