A gentle stream through mossy stones does wind, Its silver voice a balm to troubled mind. It speaks of rains that fell on distant hills, Of time’s slow pace that nature’s cup yet fills. A lone deer comes to drink with cautious grace, Its dark eyes mirroring this quiet place. The water flows, both endless and renewed, In constant change, yet forever pursued. So may our hearts like this clear brook remain— Through joy and sorrow, finding peace again.
