A gentle stream through mossy stones does weave,

Its silver song the drowsy ferns believe.

It tells of mountains where the eagles nest,

Of morning dew on petals softly pressed.

A lonely traveler pauses by its side,

To hear the tales its flowing waters hide.

It sings of time that passes like a dream,

And moonlight dancing on a silent gleam.

The brook flows on, to join the distant sea,

A timeless journey toward eternity.

The wanderer stands, his weary soul restored,

By whispered wisdom from the ancient hoard.