Massed mountains tower in the cold light,
A simple study facing this sight.
Shooting stars penetrate sparse trees,
The moon saunters toward recoiling mist.
To this summit few visitors come,
No cranes flock to the lofty pines.
Only one eighty year old monk,
Who never hears of worldly affairs.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem