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 wandering bard with furrowed brow Composes verses here and now, While distant temple bells resound Through mist-veiled mountains all around. The inkstone waits, the night grows deep, As memories the pine trees keep Of dynasties that came to pass Like shadows on the mountain grass. Yet still the words on silk survive - The art of letters stays alive.
