A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones, Whispering secrets to the ancient pines. Silver fish dart beneath the crystal flow, Where water-weeds dance in graceful lines. A lone heron stands still as jade, Watching clouds drift like memories fade. Petals fall on the current’s breath, Carrying tales of life and death. The mountains bow their evergreen heads, To guard this peace the water spreads. Though seasons change and years may fly, The brook’s soft song will never die.
