A gentle stream through mossy stones does flow, Whispering tales of times long, long ago. It speaks of sunlit days and moonlit nights, Of passing birds on swift and silent flights. The water curls around the sleeping roots, And plays a tune on nature’s hidden flutes. It carries leaves upon its silver gleam, A quiet, ever-changing, liquid dream. Though winter comes and binds it still with ice, It waits for spring’s returning paradise. For in its heart, the journey never ends, A constant thread...

A gentle stream through mossy stones does flow, Whispering tales of times long, long ago. It speaks of sunlit days and moonlit nights, Of passing birds on swift and silent flights. The water curls around the sleeping roots, And plays a tune on nature’s hidden flutes. It carries leaves upon its silver gleam, A quiet, ever-changing, liquid dream. Though winter comes and binds it still with ice, It waits for spring’s returning paradise. For in its heart, the journey never ends, A constant thread...