A gentle stream flows through the pine-clad hills, Murmuring secrets only the old mill hears. Its waters dance in silver, chasing rills, While distant clouds embrace the sky with tears. A fisherman’s boat drifts where lotus bloom, His song weaves through the mist like threads of grace. The moon will rise to pierce the evening’s gloom, And stars will trace their light on water’s face. Yet time flows on, as ceaseless as the tide— The brook still whispers where all stories hide.
