A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones, Whispering tales of forgotten times in soft, watery tones. The willow dips her branches low to catch the fleeting sound, While dragonflies in iridescent hues dance all around. An old man sits upon the bank, his fishing line asleep, Guarding secrets that the ancient, deep waters keep. He smiles at the sunbeams that through the canopy break, Knowing every ripple the wind and water make. The brook flows on, a silver thread through emerald green,...
