A gentle stream through mossy stones does glide, Reflecting clouds that in its surface glide. It sings a song of journeys far and wide, As onward to the distant sea it flows. The ancient pines upon the bank do lean, Their whispered wisdom carried on the breeze. They’ve witnessed generations come and go, Yet stand as silent sentinels of time. A lonely fisherman with silver line, Casts hopeful glances at the dancing stream. His patience worn like weathered leather glove, Awaiting nature’s fleet...
