(My own (twisted) interpretation of the Mandarin poem, 小湖秋色)
In the midst of golden red, there will be a lake.
A lake will be golden red in the will of its core.
Say, why shan't its shore rest by its lake?
Say, why shan't its lake crest by its shore?
May the lake whirl when the wind's ashore.
May the lake whirl when the wind's of yore.
May the trees unbend or weep as it tore.
May the trees amend or sleep with a snore.
Say, is the world written by this lake?
Say, is the world smitten by this lake?
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