The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Saturday, January 4, 2020

Basho Haiku

*  *  *

Has it returned,
the snow
we viewed together?


*  *  *

Darkening waves --
cry of wild ducks,
faintly white.


*  *  *

Moonlit plum tree --
wait,
spring will come.


*  *  *

Birth of art --
song of rice planters,
chorus from nowhere.


*  *  *

How I long to see
among dawn flowers,
the face of God.


--Basho
translated by Lucien Stryk
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