A gentle stream flows through the mossy stones, Whispering tales of forgotten times and tones. The willow dips its leaves to touch the clear, Reflecting skies that hold both far and near. A traveler pauses by the water’s edge, To rest his soul upon a rocky ledge. He hears the murmur of the ancient flow, That speaks of joys and sorrows long ago. The sun descends behind the distant hill, The world grows soft and wonderfully still. Yet still the brook continues on its way, To greet the dawn of y...
