鐔津文集 18.53

18.53

Parting the clouds, I make my way past the southern ridge; / Flowing water splashes, one ravine running long. / Who piled the flat boulders to mend the broken bank? / An old tree has fallen of itself, forming a perilous bridge. / Shorebirds call their mates, frequently crying out; / Mountain herbs display colors, constantly fragrant. / As the twelfth month leaves and spring returns, the mountains grow finer; / Rejoicing that you too are free of worldly dust and toil.