Rocks sit on a river barely full,
many sizes, many shapes,
unshaved shrubs, untamed trees
hover around the river barely full.
A hanging bridge of limp across,
mountain peaks way yonder
veiled by faint morning Cirrus,
cool breaths of the highland!
A mile to wheel of all this taste;
sleek dirt roads beside ravines,
thumping hearts as you drive,
the folks as fresh as classic.
Not very, very far from here,
where herons prefer to land;
ask me, whenever you're free,
anytime, whenever you're free.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
wistful writing. splendid description. rock out, sjg. (Serenity now!)