Beneath the silver moon, the river flows so wide, A gentle breeze whispers through the bamboo on the side. A lonely boat drifts slowly, with nowhere to go, While distant hills embrace the night, in tranquil glow. An old man sits and fishes, with patience in his heart, His thoughts like ripples dancing, a timeless work of art. He dreams of ancient poets who sang of moon and stream, And finds in stillness, wisdom, as if in a gentle dream. The stars above are shining, like pearls upon the deep, ...
