Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Where silent mountains guard the stream, A lone deer treads on frosted moss, Through mists that weave and sway and toss. An old monk by his temple door, Recites the prayers of days of yore. The bell echoes through pine-clad hills, As night her deep contentment spills. No worldly strife disturbs this air, Just ancient peace beyond all care. The stars above like scriptures glow— A truth that only stillness knows.
