Kobayashi Issa
Approaching my village:
Don't know about the people,
but all the scarecrows
are crooked.
Translated by Robert Hass
At my daughter's grave, thirty days
after her death:
Windy fall—
these are the scarlet flowers
she liked to pick.
In these latter-day,
Degenerate times,
Cherry-blossoms everywhere!
Even on the smallest islands,
they are tilling the fields,
skylarks singing.
New Year's Day—
everything is in blossom!
I feel about average.
My dear old village,
every memory of home
pierces like a thorn
Face of the spring moon—
about twelve years old,
I'd say.
It once happened
that a child was spared punishment
through earnest solicitation.
Last time, I think,
I'll brush the flies
from my father's face.
Summer night—
even the stars
are whispering to each other.
The moon tonight—
I even miss
her grumbling.
No doubt about it,
the mountain cuckoo
is a crybaby.
