Road turns to path
Passing empty paddies and sleepy huts
Turn, twist, I pierce bamboo thickets
The valley heat diminishes
I touch the cloud-wiped moon.
Wind sweeps through green glade
A pagoda clings to mountainside
A happy scent of apple blossom
In the distance a soft figure stands
I touch the cloud-wiped moon.
© 1976, Kenneth Koziol. All rights reserved.
