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 from a blooming peach tree, Carried by currents to the distant sea. The mountains wear cloaks of misty blue, Guarding tales of old and visions new. Though seasons change and years may fly, The brook’s soft song will never die. (Wo...