A gentle stream flows through the pine-clad hill, Its murmurs soft the evening air now fill. A traveler pauses on the mossy stone, And hears the water’s melancholy tone. It speaks of ages passed and days long gone, Of golden dawns and dusks that softly drawn. The moon above, a silent silver guide, Watches the timeless journey of the tide. In every ripple, stories yet untold— Of winter’s frost and summer’s warmth of old. The brook flows on, with ceaseless, gentle grace, A mirror to the sky’s e...
