The poet is a milling through him the landscape is turned into words. Yet he thinks just like you and his eyes see the same. The sun coming to grief in the mouth of the horse.
The poet is a milling through him the landscape is turned
into words.
Yet he thinks just like you and his eyes see the same.
The sun coming to grief in the mouth of the horse.
His jaws grind flowers into verses foot by foot.
Excerpts from Cees Nooteboom’s poem Basho