A lone willow bends by the silent river, Its branches tracing secrets on the water’s glass. Once, a poet knelt there, heart all a-quiver, Penning verses of love on blades of grass. He spoke of moonlit nights and dreams so deep, Of promises the current could not keep. Now only ripples where his words had lain, Echoing the memory of gentle rain. Travelers pause to hear the rustling leaves, Carrying tales on the evening breeze. The tree still whispers what it once perceived— How beauty dwells wh...
