Matsuo Basho (1644-1694)

    Even in Kyoto--
hearing the cuckoo's cry--
    I long for Kyoto.

    A crow
has settled on a bare branch--
    autumn evening.

    The crane's legs
have gotten shorter
    in the spring rain.

    Another year gone--
hat in hand,
    sandals on my feet.

    The old pond--
a frog jumps in
    sound of water.

    The winter sun--
on the horse's back
    my frozen shadow.

    Seeing people off,
being seen off--
    autumn in Kiso.

    A cold rain starting
and no hat--

    Singing, flying, singing
the cuckoo
    keeps busy.

    Visiting the graves--
    leaning on their canes.

    Midnight frost--
I'd borrow
    the scarecrow's shirt.

    When the winter crysanthemums go
there's nothing to write about
    but radishes.

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