On the slope of a high mountain,

Mist descends making everything dark.

The only sound that emerges,

From this haze is of a roaring waterfall.

That advances fiercely from rocks.

Oblivious of the cold torrential rain,

That lashes on terrace fields flooding them.

Nothing is visible in the distant,

Only the silhouette of oak trees,

Wearing their white armour of lichens.

Living in their kingdom of darkness,

It appears that there will be no stars tonight.

Suddenly the sun emerges briefly,

From his abode behind black cumulus,

And all vagrant cumuli disperse,

In reverence to obey his command.

I could now see the tints of olive pears,

And half-reddened apples on short trees,

Blushing from the sudden sight of the sun.

The glade is an open book but,

Its destiny will always remain a mystery.