A silver ribbon winds through sleeping hills,
Where cold stars dance on liquid, shifting glass.
A lone boat drifts, the night so deeply stills,
As memories like gentle shadows pass.
An old man sings a song of long-lost years,
His voice a thread of sorrow, soft and clear.
The moon herself, it seems, must weep bright tears
For joys that faded, love that knew no fear.
No answer comes from shores of dark and green,
Save whispered sighs from willows bending low.
The current flows, a silent, endless scene,
Where time itself moves tranquil, sad, and slow.
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