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 out the quiet village’s worth.

At last it joined a river, wide and deep,

But kept its murmur in the greater sound—

A promise it had made the hills to keep,

That peace and constancy may still be found.