Classic Poem

No one knows how old this tree is, standing before the mountain;
in profusion, its mass of dark colors reaches to the sky.
The frosty branches and twisted roots
are like battling dragons and tigers;
in the huge, drooping canopy sing crickets and cicadas.
Its green leaves, weaving patterns, are full of life,
and the holes in the trunk swarm with colonies of ants.
The upper branches darkly slant across the clouds;
the roots below dig deep into the thick earth.
Beside the tree is an ancient shrine to the local god:
people pour libations of wine, moistening the roots of the tree.
" We only wish that the spirit of this place
be provided always with offerings,
so the tree and the people who live nearby
will live for many years. "
An old man of the village, who has raised sons and grandsons,
says, " This tree has been here for ages;
I remember as a child I'd climb this tree,
and when I look at the roots and branches,
they still are just the same! "
It has lived through times of chaos, and seen times of peace;
how many woodcutters have chopped away at it,
and yet it never died!
The mountain monks, loving this spot,
cut thatch for a retreat,
but the thick greenery of the tree still stands firm,
here beside the eaves.
Wait until I come in the sixth month, bringing a cot with me:
I'll lie down, and listen to the south winds in this tree
like the roar of ocean waves.