Up the hill, a serene treasure to reap
murmuring brooks and jingling bells of sheep
Up the hill, sure there is a serene rite
Everyday sure there is a wealthy sight
One day I went up the hill
with my papers and a small pencil with eraser
down the valley a twinkling treasure lie
I took it rashly, the brook cried but no reply.
I owned august castles and pens
But my castle is dark despite all candles.
and my rooms are hollow despite all bibles
I took my golden pen and fine papers
up the hill where the lost treasures lie
Only dumb bells and all echoes die
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem