A tale unfolds where ancient boughs bend low, Whispering secrets only old trees know. By the silent river, under moon’s soft gleam, A fisherman’s lantern casts a fleeting dream. He mends his net with hands both rough and wise, While stars like scattered silver paint the skies. “Three lifetimes past,” the willow sighs aloud, “I witnessed kings in shrouds of crimson cloud.” A fox slips through the reeds with eyes aglow, Weaving myths the night lets few behold. Dawn breaks—the whispers fade to m...
