A babbling brook flows through the mossy glen, Its gentle voice a balm to weary men. It tells of mountains where the eagles soar, And secret valleys hidden from the war. The water writes on stones in liquid script, A timeless tale from nature’s manuscript. It sings of rain that fell from skies of gray, And of the long and winding sunlit way. The ancient trees lean close to hear its song, A melody that has been sung so long. It whispers to the flowers, low and deep, And rocks the thirsty willo...
