A babbling brook flows through the forest deep, Its gentle murmur lulling rocks to sleep. Silver fish dart ‘neath the moon’s soft gleam, Weaving through water like a living dream. An old pine tree leans to hear its song, Whispering tales that through the ages long. Petals fall on currents, pink and white, Carrying spring’s secrets into the night. Though winter may freeze its laughter clear, The stream remembers—waiting for spring’s cheer. For even silence holds a hidden tune, Beneath the fros...
