A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones, Whispering tales of forgotten times in hushed tones. The willow trees bend low to hear its ancient song, As silver fish dart swiftly where the currents belong. A traveler paused to drink from waters clear and cool, And saw reflected not just sky, but memories pooled. The water spoke of mountains high and oceans deep, Of promises the world has failed to keep. Yet in its constant flow, a quiet hope remains— That after summer droughts will come ...
