A babbling brook flows through the mossy stones, Whispering tales of forgotten lands and ancient bones. The willow trees bend low to hear its gentle song, As memories of seasons past drift along. A traveler once paused by its shimmering grace, To see his own reflection in that watery space. Not just a face, but years of joy and strife— The flowing water mirrored his own life. He cupped the coolness, drank both clear and deep, And felt the promises the brook would keep. It murmured, “Time, lik...