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 by the bank each day, Watching the water carry his thoughts away. He recalls youth’s fire, love’s sweet pain, And how like the stream, joy follows rain. The seasons turn, the leaves fall gold, Yet the brook’s warm stories never grow old. It sings of hope that forever flows— A timeless ver...
