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From all these trees, in the salads, the soup, everywhere, cherry blossoms fall.
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
Tree
Cherry
Fall
Cherries
Blossoms
Salad
Soup
Trees
Everywhere
Spring
Salads
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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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April's air stirs in Willow-leaves...a butterfly Floats and balances
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Felling a tree and gazing at the cut end - tonight's moon
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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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Fresh spring! / The world is only Nine days old - / These fields and mountains!
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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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The basis of art is change in the universe.
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He who creates three to five haiku poems during a lifetime is a haiku poet. He who attains to completes ten is a master.
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Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.
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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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First snow-falling-on the half-finished bridge.
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Twilight whippoorwill... Whistle on, sweet deepener Of dark loneliness
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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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On a bare branch a crow is perched - autumn evening
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Orchidbreathing incense into butterfly's wings
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Winter garden, the moon thinned to a thread, insects singing.
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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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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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Come, butterfly It's late- We've miles to go together.
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The sea darkens And a wild duck s call Is faintly white.
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