Don't worry, spiders,I keep housecasually.
Napping at middayI hear the song of rice plantersand feel ashamed of myself.
Pissing in the snowoutside my door--it makes a very straight hole.
The pheasant criesas if it just noticedthe mountain.
Writing shit about new snowfor the richis not art.
The man pulling radishespointed my waywith a radish.
New Year's morning:the ducks on the pondquack and quack.
A cuckoo singsto me, to the mountain, to me, to the mountain.
In spring raina pretty girl yawning.
That wren--looking here, looking there.You lose something?
All the time I pray to BuddhaI keep onkilling mosquitoes.
Face of the spring moon--about twelve years old,I'd say.
In this worldwe walk on the roof of hell,gazing at flowers.
This moth saw brightnessin a woman's chamber--burnt to a crisp.
The moon tonight--I even missher grumbling.
Napped half the day;no one punished me!
His death poem: A bath when you're born, a bath when you die, how stupid.
Summer night--even the starsare whispering to each other.
The toad! It looks likeit could belcha cloud.
With my fatherI would watch dawnover green fields.
Asked how old he was,the boy in the new kimonostretched out all five fingers.
Not knowingit's a tub they're inthe fish cooling at the gate.
The crowwalks along thereas if it were tilling the field.
Children imitating cormorantsare even more wonderfulthan cormorants.
These sea slugs,they just don't seemJapanese.
A huge frog and I,staring at each other,neither of us moves.
That pretty girl--munching and rustlingthe wrapped-up rice cake.
What a strange thing!to be alivebeneath cherry blossoms.
Blossoms at night,and the faces of peoplemoved by music.
Under my housean inchwormmeasuring the joists.
Even on the smallest islands,they are tilling the fields,skylarks singing.
The snow is meltingand the village is floodedwith children.
Seenthrough a telescope:ten cents worth of fog.
No doubt about it,the mountain cuckoois a crybaby.
At my daughter's grave, thirty daysafter her death: Windy fall-- these are the scarlet flowers she liked to pick.
Ducks bobbing on the water--are they also, tonight,hoping to get lucky?
In the thicket's shadea woman by herselfsinging the rice-planting song.
Last time, I think,I'll brush the fliesfrom my father's face.
Hey, sparrow!out of the way, Horse is coming.
New Year's Day--everything is in blossom!I feel about average.
In these latter-day,Degenerate times, Cherry-blossoms everywhere!
It once happenedthat a child was spared punishmentthrough earnest solicitation.
Not very anxiousto bloom,my plum tree.
I'm going out,flies, so relax,make love.
Under the image of Buddhaall these spring flowersseem a little tiresome.
Visiting the graves,the old dogleads the way.
Approaching my village: Don't know about the people, but all the scarecrows are crooked.
Having slept, the cat gets up,yawns, goes outto make love.
How muchare you enjoying yourself,tiger moth?
Even with insects--some can sing,some can't.