A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones, Murmuring secrets to the listening pines. Silver fish dart like fleeting thoughts Beneath the dappled light of ancient vines. An old man sits upon the weathered bank, His fishing rod a bridge to quieter days. He casts no hook, seeks no reward, But simply shares the water’s tranquil ways. The seasons turn—the willow’s gold descends, Yet still the brook’s soft song forever flows. It tells of time that drifts like fallen leaves, And peace that i...