In the blue mountains
Passions do not rise high
The mountains gently shake
Tall shimmering silver oaks off
The wind in their hair.
These matronly mountains
Squat pretty in the valleys
Wearing their best velvets
The air here is tea-fragrant
As magical woman-fingers
Pluck two leaves and a bud
And hurl them into baby-baskets
Time hangs lightly between
Sips of tepid C.T.C. tea.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem