A silver ribbon winds through sleeping hills, Where cold stars dip to drink the quiet night. A lone boat drifts—no oars, no sound, no haste— As weeping willows kiss the moon’s pale light. An old bard sings of journeys long complete, His voice a thread of silk on waters deep. The current bears both song and sorrow south, While mountains guard the dreams the valley keep. No footprints mark the shore where time stands still, Yet blossoms fall like memories on the stream. The moon remains—a witne...
