A gentle stream through mossy stones did flow, Its silver voice a soft and constant friend. It sang of journeys through the fields below, Where weeping willows on its banks did bend. It passed a mill where turning wheels made flour, And children’s laughter rang out in the air. It carried petals from a cherry bower, A fleeting beauty, light beyond compare. The water whispered to the patient reeds, A timeless tale of sun and rain and earth. It answered every thirsty flower’s needs, And measured...
