A gentle stream through mossy stones did stray, Reflecting stars that in the dark would play. It sang of mountains where the eagles soar, And carried dreams to some far-distant shore. An old man sat upon its banks one day, Who’d lost his memories along life’s way. The water murmured tales of long ago, Of spring’s first bloom and winter’s softest snow. With every ripple, fragments did return, The scent of pine, a forgotten concern. The brook flowed on, both timeless and wise, Beneath the chang...
