A gentle stream through mossy stones did flow, Beneath the willows where the soft winds blow. It carried tales of mountains, high and old, Of silver rains and autumn’s turning gold. A traveler paused to hear its murmuring song, And in its voice, he found where he belonged. The water spoke of journeys, deep and wide, Of stars that guided where the dreams abide. He dipped his hand and felt the current’s grace, And saw his own reflection in that place. The brook flowed on, both timeless and anew...

A gentle stream through mossy stones did flow, Beneath the willows where the soft winds blow. It carried tales of mountains, high and old, Of silver rains and autumn’s turning gold. A traveler paused to hear its murmuring song, And in its voice, he found where he belonged. The water spoke of journeys, deep and wide, Of stars that guided where the dreams abide. He dipped his hand and felt the current’s grace, And saw his own reflection in that place. The brook flowed on, both timeless and anew...