The leopard is almost entirely solitary,

so he is seeking it, seeking it,

all his thought is bent upon it.

And in the valley far below,

they leave a shallow scrape

and passed, still standing.

For this, we all must answer,

and go into the West,

taking only minutes.

But what the word was is not remembered,

and it has been a long road up

from then until now.

And what would be classified as

"doom, doom," red as blood in the light,

over young things growing,

is lost.

Paths of lone wolves

tip the balance between fire and ice

and slowly swings around the sun.

The tree-tops lower down, moaning and sighing,

decline to answer,

too numb from the morning cold to notice.

Roaming the same ranges year after year,

tiger lilies stand right up against the banks of the stream,

and lions conquer the crystal water with their reflections.

To the easy flow of summer,

the hosts were mustered in their armor,

remembering the glaciers.

Unable to kill, man is an easy prey,

being neither swift nor strong,

making not one wasted motion, running,

shouldering their burdens.

Once man, too, lived in balance,

longevity: 15 years to 20.

Living is a balanced plan,

beautifully frugal and exacting,

delight of the living tree itself.

What monstrous storms, what spectral events,

one intruder lying dead, defenders all unharmed.

But if the passes all should be won,

what then?