A gentle stream through mossy stones does glide, No maps record its course, no banners pride. It sings not of the great, nor of the brave, But of the quiet peace the willows crave. It tells the tales of petals soft that fall, Of patient roots that break the ancient wall. The moon above, a silent, watchful friend, Sees all beginnings know a certain end. Yet on it flows, past sleeping village gates, A silver thread that time itself awaits. It knows the secret that the wise hold dear: The smalle...

A gentle stream through mossy stones does glide, No maps record its course, no banners pride. It sings not of the great, nor of the brave, But of the quiet peace the willows crave. It tells the tales of petals soft that fall, Of patient roots that break the ancient wall. The moon above, a silent, watchful friend, Sees all beginnings know a certain end. Yet on it flows, past sleeping village gates, A silver thread that time itself awaits. It knows the secret that the wise hold dear: The smalle...