A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones,

Whispering tales of ancient days in soft, watery tones.

The willow trees bend low to hear the age-old rhyme,

As seasons turn and stars above keep watch on passing time.

A traveler paused to drink its clear and cooling grace,

And saw his own reflection in that quiet, flowing space.

The water spoke of journeys long and paths both lost and found,

Where footsteps fade like morning mist upon the hallowed ground.

He carried not a single drop, yet left with heart made light—

For some gifts are not held in hands, but carried in the night.

The brook flows on, its song unchanged by years or falling rain,

A silver thread through sleeping woods, easing the world’s pain.