White is the ground, white is the mist,
The clouds, still full of snow,
Are white, turning gently to gray.
Icy white are the delicate branches
of trees covered with rime.

The wind remains watchfully still,
Not allowing any trill of twig
Which might break the crystal artwork.
Even the sound of my steps wants
to hide itself inside the snow.

White is the ground, white is the mist,
What enchanted quiet land is this?
Under what heaven do I walk?
I fold my hands and give thanks
to this greatest of silent wonders.