Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Where silent mountains guard the stream, A lone crane parts the misted air With wings that trace a whispered prayer. An ancient pine records the years In rings of joy and crystallized tears, Its branches hum the wind’s old song - A truth that’s been there all along. Two fishermen by the starlit bay Cast nets where fading ripples play, Their laughter carves the night in two While catching dreams instead of brews. The river flows without restraint, A timele...