A gentle stream flows through the mossy stones, Whispering tales of forgotten dreams and ancient tones. Beneath the willow’s shade, a traveler rests his feet, As distant temple bells and rustling pine cones meet. He recalls a verse from Tang poets of old, Of silver moons and mountains, brave and bold. The water writes its poem in ripples, clear and deep, While memories like cherry blossoms softly sleep. A heron dips its wings at the river’s turning bend, Where beginnings find their echoes in ...
