All farmers run away
From the heat of summer months
Into the cool of the deep mountains;
A tub of wine—
With whom I will gladly share?
Mixed together,
We wander off the course
For some fruits in the low-lying vale;
Scattering here and there—
The wine cups are everywhere.
Reeds serve us for the seats;
Banana leaves—just filled in
To be our replete plates. . .
Once drunk, we sit with chins
Propped on the hands,
And Mount Sumeru starts to seem
As small as a grain of mustard seed.
Share
Print
Save
Follow
well done