A silver moon drifts on the river’s breast, While willows weep along the shadowed shore. A lonely boatman sings his nightly rest, His oars dividing waves that sigh and pour. He thinks of home beyond the distant hills, Where chrysanthemums bloom by old stone walls. The current bears his dream as night grows still— A fisherman who answers no one’s calls. The stars above like scattered diamonds gleam, Reflecting on the dark and endless flow. This world drifts by him like a fleeting dream, Where ...
