The Whispering Brook
A gentle stream through mossy stones does weave, Its silver song the drowsy ferns believe. It tells of mountains where the eagles nest, Of evening clouds that gather in the west. A deer descends to drink its crystal tide, While shadows in the ancient forest hide. The moon then rises, painting all in white, And blesses every creature with her light. This timeless flow, both humble and profound, Makes weary souls at last be purpose-bound. To simply be, like water on its way, Is wisdom for the c...
The Whispering Brook
A gentle stream through mossy stones does weave, Its silver song the drowsy ferns believe. It tells of mountains where the eagles nest, Of evening clouds that gather in the west. A deer descends to drink its crystal tide, While shadows in the ancient forest hide. The moon then rises, painting all in white, And blesses every creature with her light. This timeless flow, both humble and profound, Makes weary souls at last be purpose-bound. To simply be, like water on its way, Is wisdom for the c...
