A silver ribbon winds through sleeping hills, Where cold stars dance on liquid, swirling light. A lone boat drifts, the night so deep and still, While distant temple bells take flight. My thoughts like herons cross the moon’s pale face, Remembering old friends in southern lands. The water holds both time and endless space— A shimmering path through timeless sands. This current flows where all dreamers have been, Carrying whispers of what might have been.
