I've suddenly found myself
Tarrying at this secluded place—
So deep and so serene,
It defies all terms and epithets.
A crawler moves by itself,
Without waiting for the tail wind;
The bamboo grove is in the dusk,
With no missing the evening mist.
The mountain stream—
For whom do its rapids
Bandy in eager rivalry?
Lodging for the night,
The clouds store up
Above the rocky peaks;
My thatched hut is shaded
From the midday heat
By the tall trees, behind which
I haven’t noticed that
The disk of sun has already touched
The low-lying horizon line.
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Chris
Ron