In the coolness
of the empty sixth-month sky...
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the tree cut,
dawn breaks early
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scatter layer
by layer, eight-layered
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at the full moon's
rising, the silver-plumed
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entangled with
the scattering cherry blossoms—
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wheat sowing—
the mulberry trees
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in the coolness
gods and Buddhas
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I turn my back
on Buddha and face
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the moon is cool—
frogs' croaking
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fanning out its tail
in the spring breeze,
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rice reaping—
no smoke rising from
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old garden—she empties
a hot-water bottle
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spring rain:
browsing under an umbrella
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curtains drawn,
the emperor's love
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the plaintain at the veranda's edge
unfolds its coiled leaves,
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The man
I used to meet in the mirror
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In the spring chill,
as I slept with sword by pillow,
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saw the country
and returned—now deep at night
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the bucket's water
poured out and gone,
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on the pine needles,
each of the slender needles,
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to every needle
of the needled pine it clings—
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two feet tall,
the crimson-budded roses,
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I do not know the day
my pain will end yet
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I remember plucking
buds of bush clover
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in memory of
the spring now passing
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green in the field
was pounded into
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Under the moonlight, cuckoo cried as if it coughed up blood.
The sad voice kept me waking up,
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On how to sing
the frog school and the skylark school
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A spring day
A long line of footprints
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Double cherry blossoms
Flutter in the wind
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