A gentle stream through mossy stones does flow, Where weeping willows dip their leaves so low. A traveler paused to hear its murmured song, Of ancient days that to the past belong. It spoke of mountains clad in misty blue, Of moonlit nights and morning’s silver dew. A tale of love, of loss, of joy and pain, Like summer sun and softly falling rain. He sat and listened till the stars grew bright, And found in whispers solace for the night. The brook flowed on, its wisdom never gone— A timeless ...
