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 leaf descends, a dancer on the air,

To join the water with a silent care.

It journeys on through sun-dappled shade,

A liquid path by nature’s hand is made.

The evening star awakens, pale and clear,

As twilight settles, soft and drawing near.

The brook flows on, a timeless, murmured rhyme,

Against the gentle, slow and patient time.