The sky-floor miles below,
earth lower still,
furrowed white plains
stretch to the horizon.
Rising from a pile of white
is Thunderhead Mountain,
gleaming white mountain –
a sight to behold.
Towering over the plains,
sometimes giving rain,
only glimpsed by a few:
a mountain range of thunderheads.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem