A gentle stream through mossy stones does flow, Where weeping willows dip their leaves so low. A traveler pauses on the worn dirt track, To hear the water’s murmured wisdom back. It tells of mountains clad in misty blue, Of ancient pines that saw the dynasties through. A moonlit night, a poet’s lonely sigh, Carved into rocks as centuries drifted by. Now dragonflies on shimmering wings alight, Dappling the surface with ephemeral light. The brook flows on—a silver thread of time— Still weaving ...
