A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones, Whispering tales of forgotten dreams and ancient tones. Silver fish dart ‘neath the willow’s trailing veil, As the evening breeze begins to tell its own tale. An old man sits on a weathered wooden bench, His thoughts adrift in memories’ fragrant stench. He recalls the summers of his youth so bright, And the starry promises made on a warm night. The crickets chirp a lullaby so sweet, As twilight shadows and daylight meet. The moon ascends her ...
