The Whispering Willow
A lone willow stands by the silent pond, Its branches tracing verses on the water’s glass. Once, a poet rested in its shade, Dreaming of moons that forever last. He spoke of love etched in autumn leaves, Of seasons turning like pages untold. Now the tree remembers his tender words, Whispering them to the wind, brave and bold. Travelers pause to hear its gentle sigh, A story woven through root and sky. In every rustle, a forgotten rhyme— Echoes dancing beyond the hands of time.
The Whispering Willow
A lone willow stands by the silent pond, Its branches tracing verses on the water’s glass. Once, a poet rested in its shade, Dreaming of moons that forever last. He spoke of love etched in autumn leaves, Of seasons turning like pages untold. Now the tree remembers his tender words, Whispering them to the wind, brave and bold. Travelers pause to hear its gentle sigh, A story woven through root and sky. In every rustle, a forgotten rhyme— Echoes dancing beyond the hands of time.
