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DIGNIFIED ROCKY MOUNTAIN
There is a big rocky mountain, like a dagger hoisted toward
the sky, on which pine trees and long grasses grow. It is like a naked
demon, standing erect wearing a bearskin. At the foot of this motionless
rocky mountain flows a river, dark blue in color. Around the mountain the
breeze blows, peaceful and gently cooling. The sun is waiting to set. In
the distant meadow, on the other side of the marsh, on the grassy hill,
almost out of sight, the shepherds are gathering their flocks of sheep
into the fold. The mood is relaxed but uncertain. There is an air of
desire for friendly conversation. Should one rest one's mind by gazing at
the rocky mountains? Or, gazing at the river, should one listen to its
melody? Or, listening to the call of the shepherd, should one perhaps
look off into the distance? It is uncertain.
If the dignified mountain does not pierce the
heavens,
Who cares if the blue sky falls into the river?
If the flock of sheep sleep peacefully in the
fold,
Who cares if there is no friend to talk to?
Since thoughts, like feathers, are blown by the
wind of hope
and fear,
The dignified poet remains wherever he is.
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