Beside the river, where the willows lean,
The flute dreams of a world no eye has seen.
It dreams of clouds that wander without chains,
And moonlight dancing softly on the plains.
It dreams of mountains wrapped in silver mist,
Of lips that touch it with a lover’s kiss,
Of ancient boats that drift beyond the foam,
And distant hearts that long to wander home.
If I could sing, the bamboo flute would sigh,
I’d teach the stars their music in the sky.
I’d tell the river what the heart conceals,
And soothe the wounds that silence never heals.
It dreams of spring beneath the winter snow,
Of fallen leaves that teach the heart to let go.
Of cranes that rise where fading waters gleam,
And waking souls who find themselves in dreams.
But most of all, beneath the pale moon’s light,
It dreams of someone listening through the night,
A lonely soul who pauses by the shore,
And hears the song he could not hear before.
For what is music, if no heart can hear?
What is a dream, if no one draws it near?
The river flows, the distant mountains sleep,
And still the flute has promises to keep.
So let the wind pass gently through its frame,
And give the nameless longing back its name.
Tomorrow’s dawn may carry it away,
Yet by the river, it will dream today.