A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones, Whispering tales of forgotten times in soft, watery tones. The willow dips her branches low to catch the murmured rhyme, While distant hills don veils of mist, untouched by hands of time. A lone heron stands silent guard where water lilies float, Weaving dreams from sunbeams and a silver-feathered coat. The seasons turn, the stories flow—each ripple holds a theme: The endless journey of the brook, a never-ending stream. Yet in its quiet const...
