A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones, Whispering tales of forgotten dreams and ancient tones. Silver fish dart ‘neath the willow’s trailing veil, While dragonflies dance on the breeze, a shimmering trail. An old man sits on the bank, his fishing line still, Watching the water weave with a timeless skill. He remembers the years, like leaves upon the flow, Carried to seas where all memories go. The sun dips low, painting the sky in gold and hue, The brook’s soft song remains, ever-...
