A silver ribbon winds through sleeping hills, Where cold stars dance on liquid, whispering night. A lonely fisherman in his small boat thrills, As moonlight paints the world in ghostly white. His oar disturbs the water’s glassy dream, Creating ripples where the constellations gleam. No words are spoken in this tranquil scene, Just ancient peace where heaven and earth convene. He casts his net where moon and river blend, Catching starlight that through his fingers streams. This is where all jo...
