Alone I sit at the bottom
Of a low-lying valley,
Practicing my routine—
Absentmindedness;
My feelings are broad—
What an easygoingness!
The mountain's foot
Is girdled with the gauze
Of the violet clouds;
Winds at the vale’s gorge
Hiss and whiz all morn;
Monkeys arrive—
The trees are trembled
And shuddered;
Birds enter the woods,
Chirping and twittering—
Since recently, I’ve started
To hearing them all.
Urged now by the time—
My temples rustle and sough;
Towards my old age
I’m frequently compelled
To deal with vexation of spirit.
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you haven't been paying attention too.
Always,
Deborah