A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones, Murmuring secrets to the listening pines. Where sunlight dapples on the water’s skin, A lone heron stands, still as ancient lines. Two children once skipped stones across its face, Their laughter weaving through the evening air. They dreamed of oceans they would one day trace, Leaving their whispers and their worries there. Now years have passed, the brook still sings its song, A timeless verse of loss and love’s refrain. It reminds us all th...
