A gentle stream through mossy stones does glide, Reflecting clouds that in its surface glide. It sings a song of journeys far and wide, As through the green-hued valley it flows with pride. Two ancient pines upon the bank stand tall, Their branches weaving shadows, strong and small. They’ve witnessed seasons rise and seasons fall, And heard the brook’s enduring, whispered call. A traveler pauses, thirsty from the sun, To drink the crystal water, clear and cold. His weary journey feels anew, b...
