A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones, Murmuring secrets to the listening pines. Silver fish dart like fleeting thoughts, While willow branches dip their leaves to write Ephemeral verses on the water’s glass. An old fisherman sits on the weathered bank, His bamboo rod tracing circles in the flow. He knows not of hours or passing days— Only the dance of light on liquid silk, And the patient promise beneath the surface. Two children chase butterflies through wild blooms, Their laugh...