A silver ribbon winds through sleeping hills, Where cold stars dance on dark and glassy flows. No voice is heard but water’s gentle drills, That carve the banks where lonely heron goes. An empty boat drifts by the moon’s pale guide, Tied to the world by just a thought’s thin thread. The night breathes deep with silence far and wide, While distant dreams in misty clouds are spread. Why speak of grief when such vast beauty lies? This ancient scene beneath the boundless skies.
