A gentle stream through mossy stones does weave, Its silver song the drowsy ferns believe. It tells of mountains where the eagles nest, Of cloud-kissed peaks in everlasting rest. The water writes on sand its fleeting lore, Then sweeps the tales where no one reads them more. Yet in the night, when moonbeams dance and gleam, The brook still flows—a liquid, shimmering dream.

A gentle stream through mossy stones does weave, Its silver song the drowsy ferns believe. It tells of mountains where the eagles nest, Of cloud-kissed peaks in everlasting rest. The water writes on sand its fleeting lore, Then sweeps the tales where no one reads them more. Yet in the night, when moonbeams dance and gleam, The brook still flows—a liquid, shimmering dream.