By: Amoureax Amant
On feet of mountain there grew green bamboos,
stretching up sky there flew a pair cuckoos,
among bamboos there laid an old temple,
on each Monday there came the aged people.
In hand of mountain there filled plum blossom,
blooming white flowers when else bloomed seldom,
perhaps just plum smiled toward grief winter,
that smile with scent painted mountain nicer.
On head of mountain there stood deep green pine,
looking upon village, valley and chine,
as aged observer saw sun westering,
four seasons changing and village changing.
I farewelled plum blossom, bamboo and pine,
climbing down mountain along the old chine.