On the morning walk through the mist yonder,
over great hills where the way is wet still,
the storm spared trees and leaves.
Bordering along the fringes of path,
The birches drunk of last night's storm,
bow down, on my trail to the top of hill.
And the trail along the ancient wall,
The mockery of human self.
Expanded beyond the hills up and down,
as far as I see,
Across the religions, communities and the people of colours,
Divided kingdoms, divided countries, dividing hearts still.
Here on the top where pine trees have soothed the passion,
And the pine cones all your proud possession.
Here the time acknowledges no past , present and future.
Here and from here among the greatness of mounts,
The wall is insipid, invisible.