Poems of Meng Jiao
Scattered, chiseled marks, arranged above
Like calligraphy hung in the mists.
I sit whistling, paying my grave respects
To this wonder beside a steep mountain road.
Ancient trees, like a floating green mist.
High gates joined in vermillion splendor.
Now I can see the form these mountains take
And bow again as they exceed all expectations.
My impression is that everything here is natural and not man-made. Natural objects taken as hanging calligraphy, red gates, green mists. But I could be wrong.