The silver moon hangs o’er the tranquil lake, Where willow branches dance and gently shake. A lonely boat drifts on the water deep, While weary fishermen lie fast asleep. Upon the shore, a scholar sighs with grace, Recalling dreams time cannot erase. His ink-stained hands once penned verses bold, Now tales of youth like autumn leaves grow old. The stars above whisper to passing streams, Weaving forgotten hopes into moonbeams. No grand conclusions grace this quiet night, Just peace that comes ...
