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.