A lonely willow bends by the silent stream, Its branches tracing patterns in a dream. An old man sits beneath its gentle shade, Recalling promises that time has swayed. He whispers secrets to the passing wind, Of youthful days that slipped away unpinned. The leaves rustle with tales of joy and sorrow, Promising hope again with each tomorrow. Yet in the dusk, a golden light appears— A distant memory that calms all fears. The willow stands through seasons, steadfast, deep, Guarding stories that...
