Yosa Buson
Fallen petals of red plum--
They seem to be burning
On the clods of horse shit.
They end their flight
One by one --
Crows at dusk.
His Holiness the Abbot
Is shitting
In the withered fields
Blow of an ax,
Pine scent
The winter woods
White dew--
One drop
On each thorn.
A bat flits
In moonlight
Above the plum blossoms
Butterfly
Sleeping
On the temple bell
Lighting the lantern
The yellow chrysanthemums
Lose their color
Having reddened the plum blossoms,
The sunset attacks
Oaks and pines.
The old man
Cutting barley_
Bent like a sickle.
An iris
Spattered with the droppings
Of a hawk.
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