Underneath the murmur of the sun,
where golden threads weave silent paths,
lies the Itchan flow—a soft murk.
A whispering river in shadow's cloak.
It sings, not in notes, but in echoes,
of ancient dreams and forgotten myths,
flowing through time's margin, unmarked.
An unseen current drafted in light.
Visions cascading like noon-lit dewdrops;
There is wisdom in the flow's soft dance,
a reminder of life's unfettered streams.
To drift along its banks with eyes wide
is to embrace both shadow and light.
Follow the trail or lose the way,
brushstroke paths beckon with whispered dreams.
Hear the hushed boughs of ancient willows,
or wander to the precipice of dusk's end.