BASHÕ IV Poem by Cees Nooteboom

The poet is a mill that turns the landscape to words.
Yet he thinks like you and his eyes see the same.
The sun that crashes in the mouth of the horse.
The outer temple of Ise the beach of Narumi.
He sails in the canvas of mourning he sets course for his mission.
His jaws grind the blossoms down to the meter of poems.
The account of the cosmos as it presents itself daily.
In the North he knows himself a bundle of old clothes.
When he is where he never can be you still read his poems.
He peeled cucumbers and apples he painted his life
I too am tempted by the wind that allows the clouds to drift.