Upon a hilltop past the mountain walls,
The sunlight peeks and spills her warm gold glow.
The clouds, ablaze, remove their twilight shawls
She lights a slope where an apple tree grows.

Sparrows chirp a harmonious aubade
Beneath a twisted branch with bright green leaves,
As though to quiet hymns, sways a young maid.
Around her neck a woven collar weaves.

Her bare feet brush cool dew off springy moss,
The scent of blossoms wafting in the air.
A slim figure draped in white, flowing cloth,
The dangling apples match her chestnut hair.

A zephyr caresses her face, so mild,
Like a mother consoles a sleeping child.
Her alabaster nape entwined with cord.

The day awakes, beholds her gentle frame,
The sun shines brightly; mountains overcame
Her glazed, pale blue eyes are turned heavenward.