Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Where silent mountains guard the stream, A lone crane soars through misted skies With ancient secrets in its eyes. The pines whisper tales of forgotten dynasties, Of ink-washed poems on yellowed leaves, While a fisherman’s song drifts across the water, Weaving dreams from stillness and shadow. Time flows like the river’s endless turn, Each ripple a memory, each wave a return To moments suspended between earth and star— Where all journeys end, yet never ar...
