A gentle stream through mossy stones does weave, Its silver song the drowsy ferns believe. It tells of mountains where the eagles nest, Of cloud-kissed peaks in everlasting rest. A deer descends to drink with cautious grace, Her mirrored eyes the water’s face embrace. The ancient pines stand witness to the tale, As twilight’s purple veil begins to pale. The moon awakes with softly glowing light To guard the silent mysteries of night.