A silver ribbon winds through sleeping hills, Where cold stars dance on liquid, whispering glass. A lonely fisherman’s lamp drifts and stills, As memories of day in shadows pass. The night breeze carries tales from ancient times, Of poets who admired this same bright scene. Their verses etched in midnight’s haunting chimes, Still ripple through the water’s moonlit sheen. No words disturb the peace this river keeps, Just moonlight painting dreams where sorrow sleeps.
