A silver ribbon winds through sleeping hills, Where cold stars dance on dark and glassy flows. No voice is heard but night's own whispering rills, As heaven's lamp in liquid mirror glows. A lonely boatman plies his timeless trade, His oar-strokes painting circles on the moon. Through mists of pearl and jade, his path is made, To ancient tunes that fade too soon. The banks stand guard in robes of indigo, Keeping secrets older than the stone. The water writes what none shall...

A silver ribbon winds through sleeping hills, Where cold stars dance on dark and glassy flows. No voice is heard but night's own whispering rills, As heaven's lamp in liquid mirror glows. A lonely boatman plies his timeless trade, His oar-strokes painting circles on the moon. Through mists of pearl and jade, his path is made, To ancient tunes that fade too soon. The banks stand guard in robes of indigo, Keeping secrets older than the stone. The water writes what none shall...