There is a small hill in the valley.
Steep forests with tall trees near the paths.
Butterflies flutter near the lily.
This is where monks pray and artists cast.
Tiny homes stand on the western side.
The eastern side is where monks reside.
It turns into shadows in the night.
Home lights behind leaves look like glitters.
Bats go out, and who knows what else flies?
Stars watch over them like cute critters.
In the morning, the rare birds will rise.
The sun will turn into gold; surprise.
There is a small hill in the valley.
Transparent in the blue sky; you’ll see,
Or you can’t; I just imagined it.
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