A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones,

Whispering tales of forgotten dreams and ancient tones.

Silver fish dart ‘neath the willow’s trailing veil,

While the breeze carries a melancholic tale.

An old man sits on a weathered wooden bench,

His memories flowing like a timeless quench.

He speaks of love that bloomed in spring’s warm light,

And vanished like a kite taking endless flight.

The sun dips low, painting the sky in gold,

A story of beauty and courage once told.

The brook continues its soft, lulling song,

Of endings and beginnings that forever belong.