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ΗΟΜΕ
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In this world
we walk on the roof of hell,
gazing at flowers.
A bath when you're born,
a bath when you die,
how stupid.
Don't know about the people,
but all the scarecrows
are crooked.
Blossoms at night,
and the faces of people
moved by music.
All the time I pray to Buddha
I keep on
killing mosquitoes.
Even on the smallest islands,
they are tilling the fields,
skylarks singing.
Even with insects--
some can sing,
some can't.
In the thicket's shade
a woman by herself
singing the rice-planting song.
I'm going out,
flies, so relax,
make love.
Napped half the day;
no one
punished me!
Visiting the graves,
the old dog
leads the way.
In these latter-day,
Degenerate times,
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