Matsuo Basho
Snowy morning--
one crow
after another.
The summer grasses
All that remains
Of brave soldiers dreams
scent of plum blossoms
on the misty mountain path
a big rising sun
Teeth sensitive to the sand
in salad greens—
I'm getting old.
Translated by Robert Hass
First winter rain—
even the monkey
seems to want a raincoat.
Fleas, lice,
a horse peeing
near my pillow.
Coolness of the melons
flecked with mud
in the morning dew.
Midfield,
attached to nothing,
the skylark singing.
Taking a nap,
feet planted
against a cool wall.
The morning glory also
turns out
not to be my friend.
This old village—
not a single house
without persimmon trees.
Staying at an inn
where prostitutes are also sleeping—
bush clover and the moon.