The sound of temple bells echoing between two silent, 
gray mountains as the silver raindrops upon a breezeless pond; 
in its stillness I seek my own reflection. 
Beneath the silent mountains, birds are calling to each other and 
in their songs over the passing wavelets, 
I hear the never-ending prayers of men and women rising
Over the old temple; and 
in their prayers I hear my voice.                
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
 
                    