ill on a journey: my dreams roam round over withered fields
the blossoms are seen even by the eyes of the poor: demon thistle
ah spring, spring, great is spring, etcetera
lying down, the futon pulled up: cold, desolate night
Buddha’s birthday: on this day is born a little fawn
summer grass: all that remains of warriors’ dreams
coolness— naturally, the branches of a wild pine
a green willow drooping into mud: low tide
in the plum’s fragrance the single term “the past” holds such pathos
bush warbler— behind the willow, in front of the grove
when Zhuangzi dreams he is a butterfly, but when he awakes, he wonders if he is in fact a butterfly dreaming that he is Zhuangzi.
lightning— into the darkness a night-heron’s cry
flowers all withered, spilling their sadness: seeds for grass
still alive all frozen into one: sea slugs
the ancient name “Deer Antler” so lovely: the autumn moon
Musashi Plain— just an inch, the deer’s voice
I’ll fall asleep drunk, the wild pinks blooming over the rocks
Temple of Suma— hearing the unblown flute in the deep shade of trees
octopus traps— fleeting dreams under summer’s moon
falling from a grass blade, and flying away: a firefly
these fireflies, like the moon in all the rice paddies
summer in the world: floating on the lake over waves
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