A silver ribbon winds through sleeping hills, Where moonlight on the water softly spills. A lonely boat with lanterns gently sways, As night-birds sing their melancholy lays. The fisherman casts nets with practiced hand, To harvest dreams from this liquid land. His song echoes where ancient poets trod, A timeless bridge ‘twixt mortal and the god. The current flows as centuries drift by, Reflecting constellations in the sky. This river knows the sorrows and the grace Of every soul who’s seen i...
