Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recalls a stream Where poets once with brush in hand Traced characters upon the sand. A hermit’s flute still haunts the hill, Its fading notes both strange and still, While mist-kissed bamboos bow and sway To secrets of the passing day. The four seasons dance in endless turn, As crimson leaves to earth return— Each fallen petal holds a tale Carried by the autumn gale. Now wisdom flows like mountain wine Through twisted roots and needled sp...

Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recalls a stream Where poets once with brush in hand Traced characters upon the sand. A hermit’s flute still haunts the hill, Its fading notes both strange and still, While mist-kissed bamboos bow and sway To secrets of the passing day. The four seasons dance in endless turn, As crimson leaves to earth return— Each fallen petal holds a tale Carried by the autumn gale. Now wisdom flows like mountain wine Through twisted roots and needled sp...