I wail across the edge of mountains
To echo my speech, that is a roar.
The lion has a heart of language that is old,
Rent in twain, like fire in the wind.
It is volcanic to cry forever,
But the lion is always on fire
Like the same mountain or fountain.
Rain is against rain and showing what rain is,
But the weeping has changed from the awed observer
Who listens to my speech that echoed on a mountain pass.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem