Classic Poem

Climbing, climbing the path of stones
deep into the mountains;
no more villages to be seen,
only peaks of green.
Facing the gate, grass is growing
at the foot of a cliff;
along the gully, petals fly
and fall to the water's heart.
Ten thousand ravines of mist and cloud—
truly a kingdom of happiness!
Temple bells, Sanskrit chanting
through dense forests
for hundreds of years…
The old monk brushes moss from the wall,
asks me to commemorate my visit