Two minutes ago, a cyclist rode past.
Now I see a man on a scooter,
And a couple birds flying away from the view.
The mountain borders are rough and curvy,
The heart of it, it’s foggy and lazy,
The feet, alas, I cannot see.
Hark! What’s behind the mountain?
Some exceptional days looking at it
I see things deep into the fog.
Trees bearing dark-green leaves
One wiry footpath, and probably another,
A white temple near the middle,
And cloud clusters floating on the top.
What’s behind the mountain though?
Once in a while, I wake up
Open my window and stare at the mountain.
If not many a things to see
There’re rays of light kissing the tops
Sunrise or sunset, I never know.
If not, I always know what’s behind,
There’s a heart of hope and a life of light.