The Whispering Brook
A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones, Whispering tales of forgotten times in soft, watery tones. Dragonflies dance on the shimmering surface bright, As willow branches sway in the evening’s golden light. An old fisherman sits with his line and his dream, Watching clouds drift like boats on a slow-moving stream. He recalls ancient poems carved on the bridge overhead, Words of love and of loss that the rainy years read. The moon rises silver, the fireflies start to gleam, Painting ...
The Whispering Brook
A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones, Whispering tales of forgotten times in soft, watery tones. Dragonflies dance on the shimmering surface bright, As willow branches sway in the evening’s golden light. An old fisherman sits with his line and his dream, Watching clouds drift like boats on a slow-moving stream. He recalls ancient poems carved on the bridge overhead, Words of love and of loss that the rainy years read. The moon rises silver, the fireflies start to gleam, Painting ...
