Beneath the moon that guards the night,
A river hums in silver light.
Its whispers dance on winds that call,
Through ancient woods and mountains tall.
The leaves, they fall with soft refrain,
Touching the water, leaving no stain.
Each ripple born from earth and sky,
Tells of the past that never dies.
The heron stands in quiet grace,
Its wings a bridge to sacred space.
It watches over, still and wise,
A keeper of the stars’ disguise.
The river speaks of days long gone,
Of spirits that still journey on.
In its flow, a prayer is found,
To honor all that’s rooted in the ground.
The mountains stand, their hearts held high,
As they touch the heavens, kiss the sky.
They whisper to the trees below,
Of strength and peace that we must know.
So listen close when night is deep,
To the secrets that the shadows keep.
The river’s song, the heron’s flight,
Are stories passed from night to night.
