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Nothing in the cry of cicadas suggests they are about to die

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
Suggests
Cry
Dies
Nothing
Cicadas

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Sabi is the color of haikai. It is different from tranquility. For example, if an old man dresses up in armor and helmet and goes to the battlefield, or in colorful brocade kimono, attending (his lord) at a banquet, [sabi] is like this old figure.
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When I speak My lips feel cold - The autumn wind.
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If I had the knack I'd sing like Cherry flakes falling
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The haiku that reveals seventy to eighty percent of its subject is good. Those that reveal fifty to sixty percent, we never tire of.
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Plunge Deep enough in order to see something that is hidden and glimmering.
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An autumn night - don’t think your life didn’t matter.
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Come, see the true flowers of this pained 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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Fresh spring! / The world is only Nine days old - / These fields and mountains!
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The moon is brighter since the barn burned.
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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 basis of art is change in the universe.
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Do not seek to follow in the footsteps of the wise. Seek what they sought.
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My body, now close to fifty years of age, has become an old tree that bears bitter peaches, a snail which has lost its shell, a bagworm separated from its bag it drifts with the winds and clouds that know no destination. Morning and night I have eaten traveler's fare, and have held out for alms a pilgrim's wallet.
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On a bare branch a crow is perched - autumn evening
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Winter garden, the moon thinned to a thread, insects singing.
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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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Make the universe your companion, always bearing in mind the true nature of things-mountains and rivers, trees and grasses, and humanity-and enjoy the falling blossoms and the scattering leaves.
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Twilight whippoorwill... Whistle on, sweet deepener Of dark loneliness
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