A gentle stream flows through the mossy stones, Whispering tales of forgotten dreams and ancient tones. Beneath the willow’s shade, a lone bard sits to write, Weaving words with golden threads in the soft twilight. He speaks of mountains clad in mist, of stars that never fade, Of love that lingers in the heart, though seasons start to fade. The brook nods along, its waters clear and deep, Carrying his verses where the silent forests sleep. A deer pauses to drink, its eyes reflecting grace, As...
