A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones, Murmuring tales of forgotten times in soft, watery tones. Silver fish dart like arrows beneath the sun’s warm gleam, While willow branches dip low, as if lost in a dream. An old man sits by the bank, his fishing rod still and calm, His heart as peaceful as the breeze, carrying nature’s psalm. He remembers youth’s bold adventures, mountains high and valleys deep, Now finds joy in quiet moments, where secrets the waters keep. The seasons turn, ...
