A babbling brook flows through the forest deep, Its gentle murmur lulling rocks to sleep. Silver fish dart ‘neath the moon’s soft gleam, Weaving through water like a waking dream. An old pine tree leans to hear its song, Standing in that quiet spot so long. Leaves fall gently, dancing on the air, Carried by the current without a care. Twilight descends with hues of gold and rose, As the whispering water endlessly flows. Not rushing toward some distant, unknown end, But simply being—a true, st...
