A gentle stream flows through the mossy stones, Whispering tales of forgotten dreams and ones. The willow dips its leaves to touch the tide, As silver minnows dart and swiftly glide. An old man sits upon a weathered log, His thoughts as deep as morning’s clinging fog. He recalls youth—bright summers, bold and free, Now hums a tune of what used to be. The sun descends behind the distant hill, The world grows soft, and flowing waters still. Yet in the quiet, hear the brook’s low song— Some memo...