A gentle stream flows eastward, Through mossy stones and ancient trees. Its murmuring song carries tales, Of distant lands and bygone seas. Beneath the willow’s trailing boughs, Where sunlight dapples on the ground, A traveler rests with weary heart, By this sweet, ceaseless, liquid sound. The water speaks of mountain snows, Of rainfall on the verdant hills, Of how it journeys, never still, Until the vast ocean it fills. So too the soul must wander far, Through joy and sorrow, peace and strif...
