A lonely willow tree stood by the riverbank, its branches swaying gently in the evening breeze. For centuries, it had witnessed the passage of time—the laughter of children, the whispers of lovers, the quiet sighs of elders. One day, a young poet rested beneath its shade, feeling the weight of unspoken words. The willow seemed to lean closer, as if urging him to listen. In that moment, the poet heard not the rustle of leaves, but soft verses carried on the wind—fragments of forgotten poems, d...
