A gentle stream flows through the mossy stones, Whispering tales of forgotten dreams and ancient tones. Beneath the willow’s shade, where fireflies gleam, Time slows to a still, silent stream. A traveler pauses, hearing echoes clear— Laughter of children from a distant year. The water remembers each joy and tear, Carrying stories far and near. Yet onward it moves, never looking back, A silver path through fields of gold and black. It hums of mountains high and valleys deep, And promises the w...
