A gentle stream through mossy stones does weave,

Its silver song the drowsy ferns believe.

It tells of mountains where the eagles nest,

Of cloud-kissed peaks in everlasting rest.

A deer steps softly where the shadows play,

To drink the coolness of the passing day.

The water holds the sky’s reflected grace,

A fleeting, perfect world in that still place.

So flows the stream with time’s own quiet force,

A timeless and unhurried, steady course.

It murmurs wisdom to the listening land,

Cupped in the hollow of nature’s gentle hand.

A gentle stream through mossy stones does weave,

Its silver song the drowsy ferns believe.

It tells of mountains where the eagles nest,

Of cloud-kissed peaks in everlasting rest.

A deer steps softly where the shadows play,

To drink the coolness of the passing day.

The water holds the sky’s reflected grace,

A fleeting, perfect world in that still place.

So flows the stream with time’s own quiet force,

A timeless and unhurried, steady course.

It murmurs wisdom to the listening land,

Cupped in the hollow of nature’s gentle hand.