to the great Buddha
I turn my back
cool moon
looking down
under the cool moon
four thousand houses
no one's the armchair
under the trees
pine needles falling
temple's evening bell
and the sound of its ripe persimmons
falling
again and again
I enquire
how much snow has fallen
open the soji
so that I can look at
Ueno's snow
serenity
with the support of my stick
I stroll in the garden
I go out in the garden
throw seeds
on the mend
three thousand haiku
to examine
two persommons
butterfly asleep on a stone ~
are you pondering over
my pitiful life?
when this snail
raises its head
it looks like me
sick
cherry trees in full bloom
remind me of so many things
I'd like to sleep
please slap the flies
softly
the ripe persimmon
I'm biting into
drips on my beard
a persimmon eater
who loved haiku
that's the way I should be remembered
a large boat
towing a small boat
in the fog
unaware
of this prestigious place
a man's ploughing the field
raising the billhook
about to cut
there are buds on this tree
spring day
no one
in the small village
pots of flower
in a row
at the hairdresser's
this big paper kite
not one bird
gets near it
a small craft
goes round a ship
spring day
going along the river
not one bridge to cross it
long day
I invite a butterfly
to be my fellow
traveller
under my straw sandals
the scent
of field grass
four or five willow trees
around
a small house
unde a willow tree
waiting for the ferryboat
two or three cows
a face appears
at a building window
spring rain
the evening shower
hits
the heads of the carps
after killing the fly
peaceful moment
in the bedroom
bloody flies!
when I want to kill them
they stay away
in the fisherman's hut
the smell of dried fish
so hot today
for two small coins
I have the temple verandah
how cool!
summer storm
the white sheets on my desk
all fly away
solitude
after the fireworks
a shooting star
his hands full of clams
radiant with joy
he calls his pal
lotus in bloom
a small station
isolated
in the village small shop
selling cheap biscuits
hibiscus
one after another
people sit down
on this summer rock
it is a bit colder
no insect
gets near my lamp
beyond the corn field
the low wall
of a temple
my voice
becomes the wind
mushroom picking
the oak tree
felled
autumn sky
end of the year cleanup
gods and buddhas
in the grass
Translation: Gilles Fabre