Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient oak relates a dream Of travelers from a distant shore Who sought what legends held in store. They followed maps of fading ink To where earth’s boundaries softly sink, And found a spring that hums a tune Beneath the crescent moon. There lies no gold nor jewel bright, But something far more rare and right— A peace that settles in the soul And makes the broken fragments whole. Now wanderers still sometimes hear That melody, serene and clear, When ...
