A gentle stream through mossy stones does weave, Its murmuring song the drowsy forest fills. It tells of journeys from the distant hills, Where winter’s icy fetters first did cleave. The ancient pines lean close to hear its tale, While moonlight filters through the branches pale. It speaks of time, both fleeting and eternal, A liquid thread beyond the mortal veil. No hurried course this water ever keeps, But through the shadowed earth it slowly seeps, Until it joins the river, wide and deep, ...
