Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, A lonely traveler follows a fading stream. Through misty valleys, dark and deep, Where ancient stones their secrets keep. He hears a voice among the pines— A whispered verse in cryptic lines Of long-lost loves and wars gone by, Beneath a star-embroidered sky. A phantom hand points to the east, Where timeless poems brew and feast. The words take flight like autumn leaves, Weaving tales the heart believes. At dawn he wakes—no voice, no trace, Just morning d...
