In a dry, cold type of weather,
Of the enormous Mid-West,
One must appreciate the mountains,
To do the cameleon-dance.
One must not count the cliffs,
Or drop off into sleep,
To encounter therefore false dreams,
Return to the thought of the sun.
It hardens the great waters,
That stabilize the earth,
When you're sick, it makes a difference,
With whom he wishes to live.
You are freed by mountain sickness,
To speak in tongues,
With the souls of the old city,
And you want to imagine them,
You do not beat down obstinately
With this whole sickness I have,
With the feeling of wholeness,
He will be happy.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
To do the cameleon-dance.Return to the thought of the sun. A thought that touches the sky. A beautiful poem.i liked it much.