Beneath the silver glow, the ancient willow sighs,

Whispering secrets to the passing breeze.

A lone heron takes flight ‘cross the starlit skies,

Skimming waves that dance with effortless ease.

In distant hills, a temple bell rings clear,

Echoing through valleys deep and still.

A monk lights incense, dismissing worldly fear,

As midnight dew descends upon the hill.

The river flows, a ribbon dark and deep,

Carving stories in the sleeping land.

While weary wanderers find rest in sleep,

Guided by the moon’s gentle hand.

All things find peace in this tranquil hour—

Blossoms close, and silence holds its power.