Grandiose, amazing, mysterious, spellbinding, no superlative is excessive. I think that no
one could remain indifferent to the splendor of Yellow Mountains, certainly ephemeral, but
timeless at the same time. Its landscapes are fleeting. Sceneries created by an
uninterrupted game of ethereal fog with rocks and trees change every other minute. The
granite peaks, sharpened by time and elements, float sometimes in a serene and cosy ocean
of clouds, sometimes in menacing and agitated one, appearing and vanishing such of ghosts
to the liking of the fads of Chi Po, Chinese God of Wind. The hundred-year-old pines, or
the young ones, shaped in bonsai by weather and the nature of soil, soften the austere
rocks and the abrupt cliffs playing hide and seek with clouds.