Bengaluru, India — Acclaimed Indian poetess Reshma Ramesh is proud to announce the Mandarin edition of her celebrated poetry collection “Mountains Have a Memory”, translated by the legendary Taiwanese poet and translator Kuei-shien Lee (李魁賢, 1937–2025). The book is published by Showwe Information Co., Ltd., and edited by Wu Jiheng (吳霽恆).

This translation marks a moment of profound literary connection between India and Taiwan — a bridge of poetry that transcends language, culture, and time.

Reshma Ramesh shared her deep emotions about the collaboration:

“We interacted through emails while he was translating my poems, and I was looking forward to meeting him in September. Sadly, he left this world earlier this year. He was such a brilliant poet and a great soul. His passing is a tremendous loss to literature.”

The project began as an artistic dialogue between two poets who shared a common sensibility — the belief that poetry holds memory, just as mountains do. Kuei-shien Lee’s sensitive translation preserved the lyrical depth and meditative rhythm of Ramesh’s original work, offering Mandarin readers a chance to experience her poetry’s spiritual resonance.

In remembrance of Lee, Reshma Ramesh has dedicated a special poem to him — an elegy that honors his artistry, his humanity, and his enduring influence on world poetry.

The release of the Mandarin edition of “Mountains Have a Memory” stands as a testament to the universal language of poetry and as a tribute to one of Asia’s most respected literary figures.

Reshma Ramesh is an award-winning Indian poet known for her reflective and nature-infused verse. Her works have been translated into multiple languages and featured in international anthologies.

Kuei-shien Lee (1937–2025) was a distinguished Taiwanese poet, translator, and cultural ambassador, known for his contributions to world literature and his commitment to fostering intercultural dialogue through poetry.

An ode to Lee Kuei- Shien

Sitting by your iron latticed window where chrysanthemums

Bloom in autumn you ask me

‘What are chickoos?’

‘They are sweet brown fruits in my grandmother’s backyard,”

I answer “Ah! Not chickens or chicks!’

you laugh, your pale feet gentle

On the terrazzo patterned floor treading on my South Indian Silk pallu that gently picks up all words that are homeward bound

My poems with wooden feet travel east now draped in hanfu

As you wipe your reading glasses to Taiwanese mornings

The Menshens are guarding our voices from the brokenness

Of this world as you hand blow my Kannada into mandarin

Easing the bubbles, ironing out the misnomers, gently turning them

Into peach flowers in the mountain and women with bamboo hats

Now we are alone, these poems and me, you left us

Like the west winds before I could say thank you, before I could listen to my words rolling from your tongue, you turned into smoke from a distant village,

You turned into beautiful lotus in a mandala.

Now I am left with this poetry book in a language that is yours

And a voice that is mine, stranger somehow,

and I will wait until the day I turn into a jade butterfly in the mandala beside you,

then we will meet again our borders conversing,

and you will tell me poetry is not so much what it means as how it means and I will agree with you,

wishing I had met you in September.