A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones, Whispering tales of forgotten times in soft, watery tones. Silver fish dart like shadows beneath the sun’s warm gleam, Weaving through dreams that flow with the current’s stream. An old willow dips its branches to touch the liquid glass, Watching seasons pass in a silent, green mass. Here, time slows its pace to match the water’s gentle rhyme, Holding moments like treasures, beyond the reach of time. Yet the brook flows ever onward, to rivers...
