A lone willow stands by the silent pond, Its branches tracing verses on the water’s glass. Once, a poet knelt there, brush in hand, Writing dreams too fragile to last. Seasons turned—spring blossoms fell like snow, Summer cicadas sang of fleeting time. The ink faded, but the roots remember, How moonlight painted his sorrow in rhyme. Now wind combs through the leaves, soft and low, Whispering the lines none else could hear: *”Even echoes must learn to let go, Yet the pond holds the sky, year a...
