Upon the mossy stones where shadows play, A gentle breeze recites a tale today. Of mountains old that touch the silver moon, And rivers carving valleys, tune by tune. A lonely hermit in his humble shed, Paints dreams with words by lanternlight instead. He drinks with stars that shimmer in the wine, And weaves the dawn with threads of pale sunshine. The world spins on, yet in this quiet glen, Time pauses like a breath held—then again, The pines whisper what hearts have always known: The greate...
