A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones, Whispering tales of forgotten times in soft, watery tones. The willow dips her leaves to drink the silver light, As fireflies adorn the velvet cloak of night. An old man sits upon a weathered cedar log, Reading verses to the frogs beneath the fog. His words take flight like birds across the moon, Weaving dreams that vanish all too soon. The mountains hold the echoes of his rhyme, Guardians of poetry since the dawn of ti...

A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones, Whispering tales of forgotten times in soft, watery tones. The willow dips her leaves to drink the silver light, As fireflies adorn the velvet cloak of night. An old man sits upon a weathered cedar log, Reading verses to the frogs beneath the fog. His words take flight like birds across the moon, Weaving dreams that vanish all too soon. The mountains hold the echoes of his rhyme, Guardians of poetry since the dawn of ti...