A gentle stream through mossy stones does weave, Its murmuring song the ancient pines receive. While moonbeams dance on silver-rippled ways, It tells of long-forgotten summer days. The water speaks of blossoms borne away, Of twilight’s blush and golden dawn’s first ray. It hums the tales the wind has whispered low, Carrying secrets only wise men know. Still onward flows the timeless, crystal thread, With stories of the living and the dead. In constant journey to the distant sea, It mirrors li...