Carved between two forests
scented with pine and peat,
crystal cold water rushes
across a mountain shelf
over 200 ft deep.
Splashing,
tangling
in tremendous motion
roaring like the raging tide
over flint grey rock it tumbles
thundering downward
running wild
spraying
sparkling
silver
out into the air.
Filling it
full of misty mornings
smelling of pine damp grass.
Leaving a lingering
taste of
iced spring pearls
served in rock crystal glass.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem