A gentle stream flows through the mossy stones, Whispering tales of forgotten times and tones. It winds through valleys where wildflowers bloom, Dancing in sunlight, dispelling all gloom. Two children once followed its silver trail, Chasing dreams lighter than the morning gale. They built small boats from leaves and twigs so fine, Sailing them onward past the leaning pine. The brook sang secrets of the ancient trees, Carried on breezes that rustled with ease. It told of lovers who met by its ...
