A gentle stream through mossy stones does weave, Its murmuring song the rustling leaves believe. It tells of journeys from the mountain’s crown, Where icy peaks wear winter’s frozen gown. Now dancing through the sun-dappled green wood, It shares its dreams with all who’ve understood— That even smallest paths can find their way To merge with oceans at the break of day. The ancient pines lean close to hear its tale, While mayflowers blush along the shaded trail. This liquid silver, never asking...
