The ancient oak, a weathered soul,
Embraces winds, a silent stroll.
Its gnarled hands, a testament to time,
Whispering secrets, a timeless rhyme.
The brook, a silver thread, meanders slow,
Reflecting skies, a gentle flow.
Carrying dreams on its rippling breast,
Whispering secrets, putting souls to rest.
The mountain peaks, a crown of snow,
Guardians silent, where secrets grow.
A tapestry of green, a vibrant...
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