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