A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones, Whispering tales of forgotten times in hushed tones. Silver fish dart ‘neath the willow’s shade, Where dreams and memories softly fade. An old man sits upon the bank so still, Listening to the water’s endless trill. He recalls the days of youth long passed, When every joy was meant to last. The seasons turn, the water flows, Carrying stories nobody knows. Yet in its murmur, truth is found— Peace resides in simple sound. Let the world rush, hu...
