A lonely willow bends by the silent stream, Its leaves tell tales in the moon’s gentle gleam. An old man sits beneath its sweeping shade, Recalling youth and choices he once made. He speaks of love that slipped right through his hand, Of dreams he built on ever-shifting sand. The branches sway as if they understand, And weep with him for what he had not planned. Yet in the breeze, a subtle hope takes flight— The tree still stands, embracing day and night. Its roots run deep, though seasons tu...
