A silver ribbon winds through sleeping hills, Where cold stars dance on liquid glass. A lonely fisherman’s lamp softly glows, As night’s black ink consumes the pass. His oar disturbs the dreaming fish below, Who mistake moonbeams for the dawn. The current whispers ancient poetry That other fishermen have drawn. Some say you can hear forgotten songs If you listen to the water’s sigh - Melodies from a thousand years ago Beneath the same eternal sky.
