A silver ribbon through the night it flows,

Past silent hills where sleeping blossom grows.

A lonely fisherman lights his tiny fire,

While distant temple bells chant from a spire.

The water holds the moon’s reflected grace,

And carries time to some far, hidden place.

Driftwood remembers journeys yet untold—

A thousand ancient stories, dark and old.

So still the world beneath the starry dome,

The river runs, but never leaves its home.