In the quiet realms where waters weave,
A murmuring tapestry spun by unseen hands,
Fables flow, not of ink or parchment, but whispers entwined in the breeze.
A golden fish tales stories,
Leaping above the ripples,
Symbiotic echoes, the language of lichen upon stone,
The symphony of reeds bending in agreement.
Here lie the forgotten dreams of the world,
Woven into the banks, embraced by the eternal flow,
A chorus of murmurs too tender to hold yet too vivid to dismiss.
Dance along the edge of clarity,
Join the river's soft lament,
The whispers calling out, beckoning softly—hear, feel.