A lonely willow stands by the lake’s embrace, Its branches trace the moon with silver grace. An old man rests below, his memories deep, While nightingales their solemn vigils keep. He recalls spring days when blossoms filled the air, And laughter danced without a hint of care. Now autumn’s breath has turned the leaves to gold, A story too familiar, yet untold. The wind carries a tune from years long passed, Of friendships forged that were too frail to last. Yet in the rustle of the willow’s s...
