A silver ribbon winds through silent hills, Where cold mist gathers, and the world grows still. A lonely boatman sings an ancient tune, His voice echoing beneath the moon. On either bank, the autumn leaves descend, Like whispered secrets that the wind doth send. The stars above reflect in waters deep, As all the valley settles into sleep. Yet in this quiet, memories arise— Of laughter shared beneath these very skies. The river flows, as time will ever flow, Carrying both our joy and sorrow. S...
