A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones, singing softly to the ferns that lean close to listen. Its waters, clear as polished glass, reflect the dappled sunlight filtering through the ancient willow trees. For centuries, it has carved its path, witnessing seasons change and travelers pass. An old poet often sits on its bank, dipping his brush into the water to write verses on scattered leaves. He speaks of time’s flow, of memories carried away like autumn leaves on the current. The ...
