A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones, Whispering tales of forgotten times in hushed tones. Silver fish dart ‘neath the willow’s shade, Where dreams and memories softly fade. An old man sits on the weathered bridge, His thoughts adrift beyond the ridge. He recalls the springs of youth long past, When joys were vivid, built to last. The water flows, relentless, clear, Erasing traces of yesteryear. Yet in its murmur, truths abide— Peace is found by the flowing tide. The sun descends...
