A lonely willow stands by the silent pond, Its branches trace the moon’s pale light. A traveler pauses, hearing whispers beyond— Old tales carried on the night wind’s flight. Long ago, a painter sought its shade, Brushing ink on silk with trembling hand. He captured not just leaves, but memories made, Of a love lost in a distant land. Now the willow sways, a timeless green, Guarding secrets only roots know. The traveler smiles, having felt unseen, And continues where the pathways go. (Word co...
