A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones, Whispering tales of forgotten times in hushed tones. Dragonflies dance on the water’s shimmering face, While willow branches sway with effortless grace. An old fisherman sits with his line in the flow, Watching the clouds above slowly come and go. He remembers the years like the ripples that pass, Some clear as glass, some shadowed like brass. The mountains stand guard in their purple hue, Keeping the valley’s secrets safe and true. Seasons m...
