A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones, Murmuring tales of ancient days in soft, hushed tones. Wildflowers nod along its bank in shades of gold, While dragonflies on shimmering wings brave and bold. An old oak tree with branches wide, a silent guard, Whose leaves dance lightly in the wind, playing the bard. It sings of journeys, love, and loss, of sun and rain, A timeless, soothing, sweet refrain again, again. The moon then rises, silver bright, to hear the song, And stars like dia...
