Kyoto

By Matsuo Bashô

Even in Kyoto--
hearing the cuckoo's cry--
I long for Kyoto.

A crow
has settled on a bare branch--
autumn evening.

The crane's legs
have gotten shorter
in the spring rain.

Weathered bones
on my mind,
a wind-pierced body.

This road -
no one goes down it,
autumn evening

Another year gone--
hat in hand,
sandals on my feet.

The old pond--
a frog jumps in
sound of water.

The winter sun--
on the horse's back
my frozen shadow.

Seeing people off,
being seen off--
autumn in Kiso.

A cold rain starting
and no hat--
so?

Singing, flying, singing
the cuckoo
keeps busy.

Visiting the graves--
white-haired,
leaning on their canes.

Midnight frost--
I'd borrow
the scarecrow's shirt.

When the winter chrysanthemums go
there's nothing to write about
but radishes.