A gentle stream flows through the mossy stones, Whispering tales of forgotten dreams and ones. The willow dips its leaves to touch the tide, As silver minnows dart and swiftly glide. An old man sits upon a weathered log, His thoughts as deep as morning’s early fog. He recalls youth—the laughter and the chase, Now finds a softer light in this still place. Seasons turn; the water never stays, Yet in its song, a timeless truth conveys: Though days may pass and memories grow faint, The heart hold...
