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.
In spring raina pretty girl yawning.
A cuckoo singsto me, to the mountain, to me, to the mountain.
All the time I pray to BuddhaI keep onkilling mosquitoes.
That wren--looking here, looking there.You lose something?
Face of the spring moon--about twelve years old,I'd say.
This moth saw brightnessin a woman's chamber--burnt to a crisp.
In this worldwe walk on the roof of hell,gazing at flowers.
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.
Napped half the day;no one punished me!
The moon tonight--I even missher grumbling.
The toad! It looks likeit could belcha cloud.
The crowwalks along thereas if it were tilling the field.
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.
These sea slugs,they just don't seemJapanese.
A huge frog and I,staring at each other,neither of us moves.
What a strange thing!to be alivebeneath cherry blossoms.
That pretty girl--munching and rustlingthe wrapped-up rice cake.
Children imitating cormorantsare even more wonderfulthan cormorants.
Under my housean inchwormmeasuring the joists.
Blossoms at night,and the faces of peoplemoved by music.
The snow is meltingand the village is floodedwith children.
Even on the smallest islands,they are tilling the fields,skylarks singing.
Seenthrough a telescope:ten cents worth of fog.
No doubt about it,the mountain cuckoois a crybaby.
Hey, sparrow!out of the way, Horse is coming.
At my daughter's grave, thirty daysafter her death: Windy fall-- these are the scarlet flowers she liked to pick.
It once happenedthat a child was spared punishmentthrough earnest solicitation.
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.
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.
Even with insects--some can sing,some can't.
Under the image of Buddhaall these spring flowersseem a little tiresome.
In these latter-day,Degenerate times, Cherry-blossoms everywhere!
Not very anxiousto bloom,my plum tree.
I'm going out,flies, so relax,make love.
Having slept, the cat gets up,yawns, goes outto make love.
Approaching my village: Don't know about the people, but all the scarecrows are crooked.
Visiting the graves,the old dogleads the way.
How muchare you enjoying yourself,tiger moth?