A gentle stream through mossy stones does wind,

Its silver song a balm to troubled mind.

It carves a path where ancient willows weep,

And secrets to the thirsty roots does keep.

It speaks of journeys from the mountain’s crown,

Of turning mills in sleepy villages down.

It hums the tune that only stillness hears,

And washes clean the weight of passing years.

So come and rest upon its shaded bank,

And let your spirit drink, and freely thank

This liquid thread that weaves through sun and shade,

A timeless, quiet promise softly made.