Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Where silent mountains guard the stream, A lone crane parts the misted air With wings that trace a whispered prayer. An old monk by the temple gate Contemplates the hand of fate, Reading verses in the tea’s slow swirl— A dance of leaves that time unfurl. The pines hum ancient melodies Carried on the evening breeze, While petals fall like scattered rhymes In this quiet world where peace sublimes. No need for words when stillness sings Of timeless and trans...
