There’s no moon—
last night, I came here
driving a horse.
Under the tree
the soup and the fish salad,
or cherry blossoms?
As if blossoms have
fallen from the harvest moon—
the cotton field.
The harvest moon
and the fog at the mountain foot—
mists over the field.
It doesn’t look like
they will die in a short time —
the sounds of cicadas.
Let me stay for now
where there is a pasania tree —
the summer grove.
Quietly, the water flows in its vastness.
Drifting, my cypress boat now floats, now loafs.
The faint sound of my whistling is carried away by the clean breeze;
I bend to the oars, and the boat rocks.
Putting down the oars and picking up the fishing rod —
I’d end my year in carefree wandering.
Having exterminated cleverness and discarded learning,
my mind wanders in the deep and the tranquil:
Not regretting if I committed an error,
nor making a show when meeting with success.
Fishing in a deep valley,
I enjoy my own world.
With my hair down, I stroll and sing,
and harmonious air suffuses all around me.
O! Sing and celebrate —
my mind wanders in the deep and tranquil.
How solitary it is!
Hanging on a nail —
A good poet is someone who can make a verse interesting.
A master is someone whose verse does not sound interesting
but has a flavor deep inside.
A still higher stage is when a poet has reached the utmost of the art
and his poem presents
neither color nor fragrance.
Only at that stage one can be accredited
as having obtained
the quintessence of haikai.