Kobayashi Issa
That pretty girl—
munching and rustling
the wrapped-up rice cake.
In the thicket's shade
a woman by herself
singing the rice-planting song.
No doubt about it,
the mountain cuckoo
is a crybaby.
Translated by Robert Hass
The moon tonight—
I even miss
her grumbling.
Summer night—
even the stars
are whispering to each other.
Last time, I think,
I'll brush the flies
from my father's face.
It once happened
that a child was spared punishment
through earnest solicitation.
Face of the spring moon—
about twelve years old,
I'd say.
My dear old village,
every memory of home
pierces like a thorn
New Year's Day—
everything is in blossom!
I feel about average.
Even on the smallest islands,
they are tilling the fields,
skylarks singing.
In these latter-day,
Degenerate times,
Cherry-blossoms everywhere!