A cliff face. Another. And still a third.
Who was so skilled to carve this craggy scene:
the cavern's red door, the ridge's narrow cleft,
the black knoll bearded with little mosses?
A twisting pine bough plunges in the wind,
showering a willow's leaves with glistening drops.
Gentlemen, lords, who could refuse, though weary
and shaky in his knees, to mount once more?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem