A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones, Murmuring tales of forgotten times in soft, watery tones. Sunlight dances on its surface, painting ripples gold, Whispering secrets that the ancient hills hold. A lone heron stands still in the shallow, clear flow, Watching dreams drift past where the wild orchids grow. The breeze carries echoes of a poet’s sad rhyme, Lost in the cadence of this timeless, sweet clime. Perhaps it sings of lovers who once met here, Or of warriors’ triumphs, the...
