Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam,

Where silent mountains guard the stream,

A lone deer treads on frosty ground,

No hunter’s distant horn doth sound.

The pines whisper tales of ancient days,

Of rustling leaves and misty haze,

They’ve seen dynasties rise and fall,

Yet stand serene through seasons all.

A hermit in his humble shed,

Lays down his brush and book to read

The constellations’ age-old lore,

Beyond his bamboo-woven door.

The river flows, forever wise,

Reflecting ever-changing skies,

While petals on its surface drift,

As timeless moments gently lift.

Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam,

Where silent mountains guard the stream,

A lone deer treads on frosty ground,

No hunter’s distant horn doth sound.

The pines whisper tales of ancient days,

Of rustling leaves and misty haze,

They’ve seen dynasties rise and fall,

Yet stand serene through seasons all.

A hermit in his humble shed,

Lays down his brush and book to read

The constellations’ age-old lore,

Beyond his bamboo-woven door.

The river flows, forever wise,

Reflecting ever-changing skies,

While petals on its surface drift,

As timeless moments gently lift.