A gentle stream through mossy stones does flow, Whispering tales of seasons long ago. It carves its path with patient, steady hand, Through sleeping vale and sun-warmed meadowland. The ancient pines lean close to hear its song, While rustling ferns where hidden fawns belong. It speaks of rain that fell on mountain high, And mirrored stars that danced in midnight sky. Though winter comes with frost and silent air, The brook still flows beneath the ice so fair— A secret thread of life that neve...
