A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones, Whispering tales of forgotten times in hushed tones. Willow branches dip like brushes, painting the air, As silver fish dart through waters crystal and fair. An old fisherman sits with his line and his dream, Watching sunlight dance on the water’s soft gleam. He recalls ancient verses his grandfather sung, When the world was much younger and he was still young. The mountains stand guard in their misty blue gowns, Wearing crowns of late autumn...
