A narrow hill trail is coiled around,

The shoulders of a mountain.

Like a child embracing her mother.

As travellers step on its ferny floor,

They hear a long trill of whistling thrush.

A deep romantic chasm lines the trail,

It is treacherous yet intriguing.

The sounds of bees and butterflies,

Are only sounds they hear! 

These insects have become berserk,

As they have found their fair plunder.

The snow clad peaks bask in sun,

And observe these landforms solemnly.

Perhaps silence is their only language.

I come back to my house in afternoon.

To write as my unfinished phrases,

Are shaping into a poem.

The geraniums of my garden,

Soak all the sunlight to brave,

A very cold winter night. 

The soft incense of pine hangs in air,

And cedar is bearing cones profusely,

As if in love with his half-dead life.

A villager skilled in wildlife,

Acquaints a land surveyor, 

With the species of those mountains, 

The surveyor then declares, 

That the forest has abundant conifers.

An unkempt porter grimaces at this,

In penury and ignorance.  

The hill trail will turn into a road now,

Everyone looks hopefully at the forest,

As if it will bring them all contentment,

If not the promise of peace.