A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones, Whispering tales of forgotten times in hushed tones. Willow branches dip like brushes, painting the air, While dragonflies dance without a single care. An old fisherman sits with his line in the flow, Watching the clouds and the world moving slow. He remembers the years, like the water, now gone, Yet finds peace in the dusk and the rise of the dawn. The moon soon appears, a pearl in the sky, Casting soft silver as the night drifts by. The bro...
