The Mountains
It is evening.
The mountains sit, impenetrable as Buddhas,
The light falls upon their foreheads
Leaving their quiet forms and vast robes in darkness.
The sky hangs drooping above their heads
Like a canopy;
The immense earth is awed beneath their feet.
Only the lowing of the cows and the calls of the herdboys in the meadows
Come faintly to their ears.
The mountains sit, impenetrable as Buddhas,
The light falls upon their foreheads
Leaving their quiet forms and vast robes in darkness.
The sky hangs drooping above their heads
Like a canopy;
The immense earth is awed beneath their feet.
Only the lowing of the cows and the calls of the herdboys in the meadows
Come faintly to their ears.
