A gentle stream through mossy stones does weave, Its murmuring song a balm to all who hear. It tells of mountains where the eagles soar, Of secret valleys, peaceful and serene. The ancient pines stand guard on either side, Their branches tracing patterns in the air. A lonely fisherman upon the bank Casts out his line with hope and patient care. The moon ascends the eastern sky so clear, Casting its silver light on waters deep. This timeless flow, both constant and renewed, Whispers the wisdom...
