A flute with no holes is not a flute.
MATSUO BASHOA flute with no holes is not a flute.
MATSUO BASHOThe journey itself is my home.
MATSUO BASHOAround existence twine, (Oh, bridge that hangs across the gorge!) ropes of twisted vine.
MATSUO BASHOCalm and serene The sound of a cicada Penetrates the rock.
MATSUO BASHOThe moon and sun are travelers through eternity. Even the years wander on. Whether drifting through life on a boat or climbing toward old age leading a horse, each day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.
MATSUO BASHODo not seek to follow in the footsteps of the wise. Seek what they sought.
MATSUO BASHOBreaking the silence Of an ancient pond, A frog jumped into water – A deep resonance.
MATSUO BASHOA thicket of summer grass / Is all that remains / Of the dreams of ancient warriors.
MATSUO BASHOEvery day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.
MATSUO BASHOSpring rain leaking through the roof dripping from the wasps’ nest.
MATSUO BASHODon’t imitate me / we are not two halves / of a muskmelon.
MATSUO BASHOFarewell, my old fan. / Having scribbled on it, / What could I do but tear it / At the end of summer?
MATSUO BASHOSitting quietly, doing nothing, Spring comes, and the grass grows, by itself.
MATSUO BASHOApril’s air stirs in Willow-leaves, a butterfly Floats and balances.
MATSUO BASHOOld dark sleepy pool… Quick unexpected frog Goes plop! Watersplash!
MATSUO BASHOThe basis of art is change in the universe.
MATSUO BASHO