The rolling skies stretch far,
Torn by clouds that smear the blue canvas.
Like knives that threaten to strike the sun,
Huge peaks, jagged, are tipped with the poison of snow.
Monolithic mountains encircled by clouds,
Wisps of smoke trail from the cliffs otherwise bare.
One peak harbours blossom, sprouting pink over grey,
With a mountain breeze the petals are shaken free.
Beneath the branches; above the stone snow,
Sits a zither, strummed by a lone soul.
She is covered in white robes that flow like a mountain river,
White like the blossom of the cherry tree, white like the snow,
White like the ocean island clouds, white like the moon.
To whom does one play such a solemn tune?