"I am not one who was born in the custody of wisdom. I am one who is fond of olden times and intense in quest of the sacred knowing of the ancients." Gustave Courbet

14 April 2016

Seeing.


Even in Kyoto--
hearing the cuckoo's cry--
    I long for Kyoto.

    A crow
has settled on a bare branch--
    autumn evening.

    The crane's legs
have gotten shorter
    in the spring rain.

    Another year gone--
hat in hand,
    sandals on my feet.

    The old pond--
a frog jumps in
    sound of water.

    The winter sun--
on the horse's back
    my frozen shadow.

    Seeing people off,
being seen off--
    autumn in Kiso.

    A cold rain starting
and no hat--
    so?

    Singing, flying, singing
the cuckoo
    keeps busy.

    Visiting the graves--
white-haired,
    leaning on their canes.

    Midnight frost--
I'd borrow
    the scarecrow's shirt.

    When the winter crysanthemums go
there's nothing to write about
    but radishes.


Basho

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