The silver moon hangs o’er the tranquil lake, Where willow branches dance and softly sway. A lonely boat drifts by for memory’s sake, As stars above whisper what words cannot say. An old man sits upon the mossy stone, His flute’s faint melody the night embraces. The echoes carry tales of ages flown, Of long-lost loves and distant dreaming places. The waters hold the moon’s imperfect face, Yet never question light they must borrow. So we reflect both time and fleeting grace - Half joy, half so...
