A gentle stream through mossy stones does wind, Its silver song a balm to troubled mind. It speaks of journeys from the mountain’s height, Of passing through the shadows into light. The ancient pines upon its banks do lean, As if to catch the water’s murmured theme. It flows past fields where quiet farmhouses rest, Reflecting sunset in the distant west. No mighty river, yet its humble course Holds deeper peace than oceans’ boundless force. It sings to those who pause along the way— The timele...
