Walking the Hills
Secluded mountain trail,
Footsteps echoing between rocks and larges trees.
Deep in the forest,
Silent enough to hear the sound of leaves falling.
Standing on a wooden bridge,
Tree leaves near and far reflect the sun’s silver beams.
Having once reached this place after sunset,
The forest laid still and quiet,
Only the hazy faintness of the sky
Floated among the trees.
I was holding my breath watching the scene,
As it was like walking into my own painting...
________
Clouds are high, the lake is clear, frogs croak loudly,
An afternoon after the winter solstice at Menghuan Lake.
No-one.
Just me sitting by the shore,
To enjoy on my own the tranquility of the empty mountain.
As I look at the green slopes, the frogs croak to me.
A few brisk words from birds,
Flying in leaps towards the faraway valley.
Suddenly, the sunbeams jump past the clouds,
Sprinkling golden rays on the heart of the lake,
Closing my eyes I take in, this mountain, this water,
Together with the warm infiltration and nourishment of the winter sun…
________
Spring can't wait to descend among branches.
Buds, eyes closed, are getting ready to bloom,
Focusing all their strength on themselves,
Waiting for the moment to burst out.
You can feel the whole mountain gathering with excitement,
For a long-awaited festival.
As you walk in the mountains,
You feel you also take part in this solemn ceremony.
________
Mid spring April,
The entire mountain gives way to Tung trees.
They are luxuriant, raising thousands of hands towards the sky
Holding up their bunches of snow-white flower buds,
And the Goddess of the Sky scatters their petals, in a grand theatrical entrance.
The small yellow flowers of the acacia tree do not concede,
Snuggling next to the Tung trees,
Singing a duet at times gentle, at times passionate;
At this point, white euphorbias covering the mountain, just following the wind
Gently move their green-white leaf backs,
Chanting the chorus in a low, quiet way.
They know, they will take center stage,
In the cool autumnal September.
________
Back in the mountain,
To enjoy a few rounds of Tung blossoms and fireflies.
Whenever I stand in the quiet forest,
Immersed in the buzzing of insects and croaking of frogs, in the echo of the calls from the black-crowned heron,
Watching fluorescent dots flying by lightly,
Feelings always run deep in my heart.
These are peaceful exchanges with the universe around,
Moments of beauty and eternity.
________
Sitting quietly at the window,
As a cloud of mist flutters by, like puff powder,
And swiftly conceals the forest outside the window;
The clouds continue to drift, gradually
Stretching out into a dragon with claws,
Who flies straight in the direction of the valley.
________
Coming back from afar,
The Tung blossoms in the mountains have all already fallen.
Friends recount for me the news of the flowers.
Missing the Tung blossoms is a true pity,
As if a friend had organized a grand feast,
But you were far away.
But we are missing something every day,
And at the same time we are getting something,
Although there are no Tung blossoms at this moment,
The acacia trees have gradually spotted the mountain landscape with yellow dots.
We should cherish what we have at hand,
Otherwise of our entire life,
We are missing each moment!
________
In the afternoon, walking across a stream,
Trees spill their shadows on the stones,
This is what nature has written
In a touching cursive calligraphy.
________
Maybe,
I am this stone,
Wishing to be in the flow of that glowing stream,
Grasping
Little traces of years going by.
2005 - 2011