I put this to myself ( it is now three in the October morn , about to be born ) : when awake, bake a Haiku or three.
Twice Basho scribbles.
” Harder than planting rice is
To wash my own back….”
Or what about this Haiku-baking:
Sweet Heart of Jesus,
You, my gentle vocative.
Underfoot an ant.
Well, is this, then death?
A last, lonely ciccada
Is worried no more.
Is glic iad lucha / San fhomhar oll-órga. Ari´s / Ní bheidh a leithéid ann….
( A last baked Haiku for now as our roses-fingering dawn sneaks in …. )
Guarda i ratti !
M´immenso di Autunno .
– Ciascuno così