A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones, Whispering tales of ancient days in soft, watery tones. The willow dips her branches low to catch the murmured rhyme, While distant hills keep listening through the beat of endless time. A traveler paused to drink its song, his thirst both heart and soul, And in the water’s lucid dream, he felt himself made whole. The brook sang on of joy and loss, of love that would not fade— A liquid verse in nature’s book, in sun and shadow laid. He rose a...
