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 fleeting sound, While dragonflies in iridescent hues dance all around. An old man sits upon the bank, his fishing line cast wide, With patience born of decades spent flowing with the tide. He knows the water’s secret songs—the joy, the loss, the grace— Each ripple holds a memory time cannot erase. The sun begins to sink behind the distant ...
