A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones, Whispering tales of forgotten times in soft, watery tones. Willow branches dip low to kiss its crystal face, While dragonflies in shimmering hues above the surface race. An old fisherman sits with his line cast in the flow, Watching clouds like sheep in the blue meadow slowly go. He recalls youth’s adventures under moons long passed away— How seasons dance like petals on the waves, then drift away. The brook sings on, carrying dreams to dista...
