Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Where silent mountains guard the stream, A lone deer treads on frosted leaves, While distant chimes stir memory’s weave. An ancient pine recounts old tales— Of lovers sailing winter gales, Of scholars tracing starry signs, Their dreams etched in twilight lines. Yet time flows like the river’s song, Carrying all where they belong. The deer now fades into the mist, Leaving but footprints nature kissed.