A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones,

Whispering tales of forgotten times in soft, watery tones.

The willow trees bend low to hear the ancient rhyme,

As golden sunlight filters through, ignoring haste or crime.

A traveler pauses by the bank, weary from the road,

And finds a peace within the sound that lightens every load.

The water sings of mountains high and journeys to the sea,

A timeless flow that knows both joy and tragedy.

In every bubble, stories float—of love, of loss, of grace—

Each moment carried forward to some distant, waiting place.

The brook flows on, as brooks will do, through shadow and through sun,

Reminding all who listen: we are many, yet are one.