The silver moon hangs soft and low above the frozen stream,
While mountains fade into the mist, half-waking in a dream.
Across the snow-white, silent world, the winter branches bend,
And through the chill of quiet night, a lonely song ascends.
His fingers press the bamboo flute, a melody takes flight,
Like swirling threads of starlight woven gently through the night.
Each rising note a whispered breath, each cadence soft and clear,
It calls across the glassy wave to one who listens near.
A distant shore, a purple gown, a lantern’s amber glow,
Where ancient strings of a guzheng begin to softly flow.
The river sings, the music meets, the restless world is still,
As yin and yang in perfect grace embrace the lonely hill.
No words disturb the sacred peace, no shadows break the bond,
Just music falling like a prayer upon the lake beyond.
The heart becomes a quiet tide, all earthly sorrows cease,
Within the sound of flute and stream, the soul has found its peace.