A stream meanders through the mossy stones, Murmuring secrets in forgotten tones. It tells of mountains where the eagles soar, And sleepy valleys touched by morning’s lore. A traveler paused to hear its gentle song, And in its rhythm, found where he belongs. No need for maps or roads that twist and bend, Just follow water, find a truer end. The brook flows on, both timeless and serene, A liquid thread in nature’s vast demesne.
