A tale unfolds by the silent riverbank, where an ancient willow tree has stood for centuries. Its leaves murmur secrets to those who pause to listen—of lovers’ promises exchanged under its boughs, of travelers resting in its shade, and of seasons cycling like breath. One autumn evening, a lone poet sat beneath it, ink brush in hand, capturing the rustling verses in his scroll. He wrote of moonlight weaving through branches, of roots drinking from hidden streams, and of time itself curling lik...
