A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones, Whispering tales of forgotten dreams and ancient tones. Beneath the willow’s shade, where sunlight softly plays, A lonely traveler rests to ponder through the haze. He recalls a distant spring when blossoms filled the air, And laughter echoed brightly, free from worldly care. Now autumn leaves descend like memories turned gold, A story left untold, in hearts grown old and cold. Yet the brook flows ever on, with patience deep and wise, Mirrori...
