The Whispering Brook
A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones, Murmuring tales of ancient days in soft, watery tones. Silver fish dart ‘neath the surface, quick and bright, While willow branches dip to kiss the light. An old man sits upon a weathered bench nearby, Watching clouds like drifting dreams in autumn’s sky. He recalls his youth—a dance of joy and strife, Now soothed by the quiet flow of this liquid life. The brook sings on, a timeless, calming friend, From dawn’s first glow to twilight’s purple...
The Whispering Brook
A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones, Murmuring tales of ancient days in soft, watery tones. Silver fish dart ‘neath the surface, quick and bright, While willow branches dip to kiss the light. An old man sits upon a weathered bench nearby, Watching clouds like drifting dreams in autumn’s sky. He recalls his youth—a dance of joy and strife, Now soothed by the quiet flow of this liquid life. The brook sings on, a timeless, calming friend, From dawn’s first glow to twilight’s purple...
