A gentle stream through mossy stones does weave, Its murmuring song the rustling leaves receive. The ancient pines their shaded secrets keep, While weary wanderers find a pause from grief. A distant bell echoes from temple high, As silver moon ascends the twilight sky. Though worldly cares may tug the sleeve in vain, This quiet moment holds what truths remain. The water flows, unknowing of its grace, Yet carves through rock with patient, timeless pace.
