A gentle stream through mossy stones does weave, Its murmuring song the drowsy forest fills. It tells of journeys from the distant hills, Where winter’s ice first taught the waves to leave. The water writes on sand in liquid hand, A fleeting verse that none may truly keep, But in its flow, the ancient mountains sleep, And hear their stories sung across the land. No bard could trace its music note by note, Nor hold the sparkle of its sunlit glance— Yet in its path, the thirsty roots advance, A...
