A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones, Whispering tales of forgotten times and ancient tones. Under the willow’s shade, where fireflies softly gleam, A poet dreams of lotus flowers adrift in moonlit stream. The breeze carries echoes of a song from ages past, Of friendships meant to flourish, yet too fragile to last. Each ripple holds a memory—of joy, of loss, of grace— Flowing toward the distant sea, leaving no trace. Yet in its gentle murmur, a timeless truth it keeps: The journe...
