A stream meanders through the mossy stones, Murmuring tales in watery, hushed tones. It speaks of mountains where the eagles fly, And passing clouds that paint the azure sky. A lonely poet sits upon the bank, His heart adrift in thoughts both deep and frank. He listens to the water’s gentle rhyme, A timeless verse from some forgotten time. The sun descends behind the distant hill, The world grows soft and strangely, deeply still. Yet still the brook continues its sweet song, Flowing where it ...
