A stream of water rustling down the hills in urge to meet the gleaming river,
although on the sharp and thirsty edges, it has always been a giver.
Often stumbbling in the path upon the hard rocks, it never gave up,
maybe because at every curve there were some clumps.
Chattering in the sunny vale,
it gushes down the edge leaving the holographic image in the mountain trail.
Murmuring in the moors under the dark sky, trembling with the cold and making the noise pitched sharp high.
It slips, It slides, It struggles, It fights !!! & atlast it joins the river with all its might !
All the turns, the curves, the sharp narrow ridges may come and go,
but whatever happens it never stops to flow.
And this virtue of the brook makes it look distinct ! .
For all the strugglers and survivours, U r the brook !