Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Where silent mountains guard the stream, A lone deer treads on frosted leaves, While autumn’s breath through pinewood weaves. An ancient tale the north wind tells— Of hidden glades and mossy wells, Where time itself seems to suspend, And all distractions softly end. Two stars above in concert burn, As embers fade to greet the morn. No need for words where peace is found, Just earth and sky and sacred ground.
