A gentle stream through mossy stones does glide, Reflecting clouds that in its surface glide. It tells no tales of grandeur or of pride, But simply flows with nothing left to hide. The ancient pines upon its banks do lean, Their rustling boughs a tranquil, constant theme. They’ve witnessed seasons change and skies convene, Yet find their peace in this eternal scene. A lonely heron stands in silent grace, Its silver form a statue in this place. It knows no rush, no hurried, frantic pace, Conte...
