A gentle stream through mossy stones does wind,

Its silver voice a balm to troubled mind.

It sings of journeys from the mountain’s crest,

Of sunlit days and nights in quiet rest.

The ancient pines lean close to hear its tale,

While breeze-carried blossoms, fragrant, pale,

Dance on its surface in the dappled light,

Then drift like dreams into the waiting night.

Two scholars pause upon the wooden bridge,

Their thoughts as calm as yon far distant ridge.

They speak of verse, of time’s relentless flow—

Just like this stream, both endless, yet so slow.

A heron rises from the reedy shore,

Its wings a brushstroke that the heavens wore.

In this still moment, all the world seems clear—

The water’s wisdom, ever sincere.