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Come, butterfly It's late- We've miles to go together.

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
Butterfly
Miles
Late
Together
Come

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Spring rain conveyed under the trees in drops.
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Poverty's child - he starts to grind the rice, and gazes at the moon.
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The basis of art is change in the universe.
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An autumn night - don’t think your life didn’t matter.
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The temple bell stops but I still hear the sound coming out of the flowers.
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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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Do not seek to follow in the footsteps of the wise. Seek what they sought.
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All my friends / viewing the moon – / an ugly bunch.
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The moon is brighter since the barn burned.
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Mountain-rose petals Falling, falling, falling now... Waterfall music
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Why so scrawny, cat? Starving for fat fish or mice... Or backyard love?
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When I speak My lips feel cold - The autumn wind.
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I am one who eats breakfast gazing at morning glories.
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Around existence twine, (Oh, bridge that hangs across the gorge!) ropes of twisted vine.
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A flute with no holes is not a flute.
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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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Before enlightenment, chopping wood and carrying water. After enlightenment, chopping wood and carrying water.
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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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April's air stirs in Willow-leaves...a butterfly Floats and balances
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Even in Kyoto/Hearing the cuckoo's cry/I long for Kyoto
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