Beneath those lofty Kokang peaks,
There is hardly any pleasure to seek.
Faint mule tracks are the only ways
To Kokang's heart by monotonous days.

By monsoon season ways turn to pools,
And skillful riders become fools,
Slipping down with thunderous sound.
When riders and horses fall asunder,
Legs and hands become broken members.

By day the Kunlong Valley bears great heat,
By night mosquitoes wander in great fleets.
But noisy and bright are market days,
When Shan belles don on colours light and gay.

The clumsy movement of stubborn mules
Adds much curiosity to one's view.
And petty merchants fat, big, and small,
All yelling beside wooden stalls.

Scaling down from the high hill crags,
Are the inhabitants in jet-blue black,
All carrying baskets and big brown sacks.
While swooping down, they look like clowns,
With animals making lugubrious sounds.