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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
Cicadas
Suggests
Cry
Dies
Nothing

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Clapping my hands with the echoes the summer moon begins to dawn.
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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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I felt quite at home, / As if it were mine sleeping lazily / In this house of fresh air.
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On a bare branch a crow is perched - autumn evening
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Mountain-rose petals Falling, falling, falling now... Waterfall music
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Ballet in the air... Twin butterflies until, twice white They Meet, they mate
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When I speak My lips feel cold - The autumn wind.
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Before enlightenment, chopping wood and carrying water. After enlightenment, chopping wood and carrying water.
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The moon is brighter since the barn burned.
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The oak tree: not interested in cherry blossoms.
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Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.
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Seek on high bare trails Sky-reflecting violets... Mountain-top jewels
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Winter solitude- in a world of one colour the sound of the wind.
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Around existence twine, (Oh, bridge that hangs across the gorge!) ropes of twisted vine.
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Felling a tree and gazing at the cut end - tonight's moon
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Why so scrawny, cat? Starving for fat fish or mice... Or backyard love?
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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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From all these trees, in the salads, the soup, everywhere, cherry blossoms fall.
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Go to the pine if you want to learn about the pine, or to the bamboo if you want to learn about the bamboo. And in doing so, you must leave your subjective preoccupation with yourself. Otherwise you impose yourself on the object and you do not learn.
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Twilight whippoorwill... Whistle on, sweet deepener Of dark loneliness
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