Classic Poem

Twisting, circling, the green path slants:
this is home for the rustic monks.
Swelling the gullies, waterfalls splash from cliffs;
piercing sky, stone teeth stand in rows.
The brazier is cold; some pine cones remain.
The trellis is silent; vine blossoms fall.
The monks remember when people fled the troops;
then, noble carriages flocked to these gates.