A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones, Whispering tales of forgotten times in soft, watery tones. The willow trees bend low to hear the ancient rhyme, As silver fish dance lightly to the beat of time. A traveler pauses by the bank, weary and alone, And finds a friend in the water’s soothing drone. The brook sings of mountains high and oceans deep, Of promises the world has failed to keep. Yet in its flow, a constant hope remains— That after sunshine, come the cleansing rains. And ...
