A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones, Murmuring tales of forgotten times in soft, liquid tones. Wildflowers nod along its bank in hues of gold and blue, While dragonflies dance on light wings in the morning dew. An old willow dips its branches like a painter’s careful brush, Silently sketching ripples in the water’s endless rush. The mountains wear cloaks of mist, wise and ever still, Guarding secrets in their hearts as ages roll at will. Yet the brook flows on, never pausing to ...
