It's sheltered under the root;
a tree, whose branches are thick,
independently of other trees,
by the edge her high cotton hill,
whose fine sands are shaken by its movement;
However the successive falls fall on its white face,
whereas the clouds of the night veil the light of stars.
Breathing in and pushing down and out
are how the rivers were made.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem