A gentle stream through mossy stones does weave,

Its silver song the drowsy ferns believe.

It tells of mountains where the eagles stray,

And shadows dance at closing of the day.

An old man sits upon a weathered log,

Half-listening to the water's dialogue.

He remembers youth—a swift and fiery steed,

A heart that answered every longing's need.

Now peace resides where restless dreams once thrived,

In quiet moments gratefully derived.

The brook flows on, to join some distant sea,

As time yet flows through what we used to be.