Two Little Poems
One morning, the mountain farmer goes out
to milk his goats and never comes back;
A quiet stream leaps from the edge of a high
granite cliff and disappears into the late
Sitting in an alpine meadow, more flowers
than grass, the sound of delicate bells
wave after wave,
from the metal which sleeps in rocks.
If one carries the mountain in one's heart, to
pick up the stone is to pick up the mountain,
But for us, a stone is just a stone and nothing
more, just so much dead weight,
like a pack which grows heavier
with each passing step.
Half way up, half broken, turning back...
and the sound of stone mountains
just isin the wind.