A gentle stream through mossy stones does weave, Its silver song the drowsy ferns believe. It tells of mountains where the eagles nest, Of cloud-kissed peaks in everlasting rest. Two ancient pines upon the bank converse, In rustling tongues, they share the universe. They speak of seasons turning like a page, Of youth and wisdom, and the weight of age. A traveler pauses, hearing their low sigh, And sees the world with an awakened eye. The water’s path, though long, will find the sea— So too th...
