Beneath the silver moon’s gentle glow, A lone heron stands in the water below. Ripples dance where the willow trees lean, Whispering secrets of what might have been. An old fisherman drifts on his humble boat, Humming a tune from a long-ago note. The mountains wear mist like a delicate crown, As stars sprinkle light on the sleepy town. Time flows like the river, both silent and deep, Carrying promises the night will keep. In this quiet world, far from rush and from fray, The moon writes a poe...
