A lone willow bends by the silent river,

Its branches tracing secrets on the water’s glass.

Once, a poet rested under its shade,

Dreaming of moons long past and springs yet to bloom.

He left a verse carved in its ancient bark—

”Time flows like the stream, yet roots hold fast.”

Now the tree whispers the lines to passing winds,

A timeless story carried on gentle breezes.

Travelers pause to hear its murmuring tale,

Finding solace in the consistency of roots and flow.

In its rustle, echoes of laughter and tears linger,

A gentle reminder that even solitude holds grace.

A lone willow bends by the silent river,

Its branches tracing secrets on the water’s glass.

Once, a poet rested under its shade,

Dreaming of moons long past and springs yet to bloom.

He left a verse carved in its ancient bark—

”Time flows like the stream, yet roots hold fast.”

Now the tree whispers the lines to passing winds,

A timeless story carried on gentle breezes.

Travelers pause to hear its murmuring tale,

Finding solace in the consistency of roots and flow.

In its rustle, echoes of laughter and tears linger,

A gentle reminder that even solitude holds grace.