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 begin to fade at break of day. An old man sits upon the mossy stone, Recalling youth like petals on the stream. The whispered winds through bamboo groans have grown, Carrying fragments of a long-lost dream. Though seasons change and hair has turned to snow, The heart still keeps the songs of long ago.
