Beside the mossy stones I stray, Where silver waters dance and play. A gentle breeze whispers through the pine, Weaving tales of forgotten time. Two butterflies chase the morning light, Dipping in blossoms, drunk with delight. An old fisherman drifts down the stream, Lost in a half-remembered dream. The mountains wear a cloak of misty blue, Guarding secrets ancient and true. Yet the babbling brook sings on, clear and low, Of journeys only the brave may go.
