A gentle stream through mossy stones does weave, Its murmuring song a balm to all who hear. The ancient pines stand witness on the shore, As silver moonshine paints the water clear. Two childhood friends would meet there every dusk, To share their dreams beneath the willow’s shade. They vowed to chase the horizon’s distant glow, Though time and tide might make their memories fade. Years flowed like water—one became a bard, Who sang of mountains clad in morning’s grace. The other sailed beyond...
