Poems by Issa
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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.
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