Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Where silent mountains guard the stream, A lone deer treads on frosty grass Through mists that shift like fragile glass. An ancient pine extends its arm To shield the world from all that harms, Its whispered tales of ages past In every breath of autumn’s blast. Two cranes take flight toward the sun, Their journey but anew begun, While far below the river flows Where time both comes and ever goes. This tranquil scene of stone and dew Holds more than mortal...