A gentle stream through mossy stones does wind, Its silver voice a balm to troubled mind. It sings of journeys from the mountain’s height, Of star-reflected dreams in moonlit night. The ancient pines upon its banks do lean, To hear the tales that flow and dance between. A deer descends at dusk to drink its fill, While twilight hangs above the silent hill. This liquid thread that weaves through time and space, Has watched dynasties pass with tranquil grace. It murmurs still to those who pause ...
