A silver stream through mossy stones does glide, Beneath the willow’s gently weeping shade. It carries tales of mountains far and wide, Where ancient pines their steadfast vows have made. Two children once upon its banks did play, Who chased the butterflies in sunlit haze. They built small boats of birch bark to convey Their dreams along the water’s winding ways. Now years have passed—the brook still sings its song, Though one child seeks the ocean’s vast embrace, While one remains to hear th...

A silver stream through mossy stones does glide, Beneath the willow’s gently weeping shade. It carries tales of mountains far and wide, Where ancient pines their steadfast vows have made. Two children once upon its banks did play, Who chased the butterflies in sunlit haze. They built small boats of birch bark to convey Their dreams along the water’s winding ways. Now years have passed—the brook still sings its song, Though one child seeks the ocean’s vast embrace, While one remains to hear th...