A gentle stream through mossy stones does glide, Reflecting clouds that in its bosom hide. It sings a tune of journeys long and past, Of sunlit days and shadows it has cast. The ancient pines upon the bank stand tall, Their whispered secrets answered by the call. Of wandering winds that through their branches play, And carry fragrant tales of faraway. A lonely heron dips its slender beak, In search of silver fish in waters meek. The ripples spread in circles, soft and clear, Erasing traces of...
