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 timeless poet’s sweet complaint,

Carving canyons through the stone

To find the sea it calls its home.