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Winter garden, the moon thinned to a thread, insects singing.

Matsuo Basho

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Matsuo Basho
Age: 50 †
Born: 1644
Born: January 1
Died: 1694
Died: November 28
Artist
Poet
Writer
Vaxjo
Matsuo Basho
Bashō
Bashô
Basho
Matsuo Bashou
Moon
Singing
Thinned
February
Insects
Thread
Winter
Garden

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Nothing in the cry of cicadas suggests they are about to die
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An autumn night - don’t think your life didn’t matter.
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April's air stirs in Willow-leaves...a butterfly Floats and balances
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Collecting all The rains of May The swift Mogami River.
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When your consciousness has become ripe in true zazen-pure like clear water, like a serene mountain lake, not moved by any wind-then anything may serve as a medium for realization.
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the universe and its beings are a complementarity of empty infinity, intimate interrelationships, and total uniqueness of each and every being.
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Real poetry, is to lead a beautiful life. To live poetry is better than to write it.
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Poverty's child - he starts to grind the rice, and gazes at the moon.
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Why so scrawny, cat? Starving for fat fish or mice... Or backyard love?
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Without bitterest cold that penetrates to the very bone, how can plum blossoms send forth their fragrance all over the world?
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Every moment of life is the last, every poem is a death poem.
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Ballet in the air... Twin butterflies until, twice white They Meet, they mate
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Winter solitude- in a world of one colour the sound of the wind.
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Before enlightenment, chopping wood and carrying water. After enlightenment, chopping wood and carrying water.
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Farewell, my old fan. / Having scribbled on it, / What could I do but tear it / At the end of summer?
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The moon is brighter since the barn burned.
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A thicket of summer grass / Is all that remains / Of the dreams of ancient warriors.
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The temple bell stops but I still hear the sound coming out of the flowers.
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The desire to break the silence with constant human noise is, I believe, precisely an avoidance of the sacred terror of that divine encounter.
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