Hills burdened by deep thoughts abide
Languorous in the midst of flimsy mist.
Perhaps nostalgic of the days bygone,
At times they sigh with long, long winds.

As tears torn from moments of light sadness,
Blue, blue beads of dew shimmer on each leave.
Shedding sorrow and banishing the mist,
The hills regard me in their wise repose.

At the faintest swaying of the tree tops,
Tears of heaven drop from the drenched limbs.
As tiny diamonds lace the air with moisture,
Colors are revived by the golden sun-brush.

The rainy threads entwined with sunrays
Form skillful stitches on the emerald robes.
Vibrant ornaments of flowers at the hems
Enhance the stately beauty of the hills.

Appointing birds of eighty tongues to every branch,
The hills conduct a melodic forum of the winged.
Every majestic tone in tune with others,
Each stone and grass a part of the perfect web.

Listening to my dear son’s lovely voice,
The hills record it deep in their garnet rocks.
Birds’ sonorous singing as the strings,
Khangai’s grand lyre sounds the joy of hills.

Gazing at a single yellow faded leaf,
Who’d tell a story of many, many years,
Striving to grasp the hills’ deep thoughts
In an instant of this ancient world.

Amid the blue-green mass of well-known grass
A fresh new flower has been born!
A work of art long nurtured by the hills
That found its form today and sprang to life?