Poems by Issa 

What a strange thing!

to be alive

beneath cherry blossoms. 

Not yet become a Buddha,

the ancient pine tree,

dreaming. 

From the end of the nose

of the Buddha on the moor

hang icicles. 

Animals

In the falling of petals

they see no Buddha,

no Law. 

The cuckoo sings

to me, to the mountain,

to me, to the mountain.

Insects on a bough

floating downriver,

still singing.