The mountains, burdened by deep thoughts, abide,
Languorous in the looming mist.
As if reminiscing of days bygone,
At times they sigh with long, long winds.
Like tears shed in moments of light sorrow,
Blue beads of dew glimmer on each leaf;
Clearing the mist and casting away their woes
The mountains regard me in their wise repose.
With the slightest swaying of the tree branches
Tears of heaven drop gently from the drenched limbs.
As specks of water from the clearing fog sparkle in the air,
A golden-tipped sun brush paints every color.
Threads of rain knitting the sunrays like string
Form skillful stitches on the brownish green robes of the stately mountains.
Vibrant flowers adorn its slopes,
And weave patterns at its feet.
Birds of all feathers, appointed to perch on every branch,
Conduct a melodic ensemble of the winged.
Each majestic tone in tune with others,
Each stone, each blade of grass, form the lyrics of the song.
The mountains hear my young son’s voice,
And record it deep in their mahogany-colored rocks.
The song of the cuckoo—the zither of the great khangai ,
Resounds with the joy of the mountains.
When even a single withered leaf lying on its slopes
Could tell hundreds of stories of life on this earth,
We cannot fathom the deep thoughts of the great mountains
In but a mere moment of this ancient world.
Amid the blue-green mass of familiar grass
A fresh new flower has been born!
Is this not a work of art long nurtured by the mountains
That found its form today and sprang to life?
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