Classic Poem

Overnight clouds begin to scatter,
green mountains stand moist;
falling red petals flutter down,
stream waters flow fast.
In Peach Blossom Spring, most of the year is spring;
at the cave-mouth, springtime mists
sway the hanging vines.
Hanging vines sway in mist, dangling from sheer cliffs;
flying water tumbles down, plunges three thousand feet.
Jewel-like plants everywhere cover gully slopes;
towering pine trees, stark and noble, penetrate the sky.
Roosters crowing, dogs barking,
villages naturally form,
the folks in one village their entire lives
not knowing the folks in the next.
This immortal of the isles of paradise
knows the road to take:
his dots and washes of red and green
he brushes on delicate silk.
Where in the world is there a place
just like this painted scene?
I'll move my family there right now
to live up in the mountains.