A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones, Whispering tales of forgotten times in soft, watery tones. Silver fish dart ‘neath the willow’s shade, Where dreams and reality gently fade. An old man sits on a weathered bench nearby, Watching the clouds like ships sailing high. He recalls youth’s fire and love’s sweet grace, In the water’s reflection, he sees his own face. Seasons have turned, yet the brook flows ever on, Carrying memories from dusk until dawn. Its murmur speaks truths bot...
