A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones, Whispering secrets to the ancient pines. Silver fish dart beneath the crystal flow, Where water-weeds dance in patterns divine. An old fisherman sits on a weathered rock, Casting his line with practiced, graceful hands. He knows the rhythm of the current’s song, And the hidden paths across the sandy lands. The sun descends behind the distant hills, Painting the sky in hues of gold and red. The brook continues its eternal journey, Carrying dre...
