A lone willow bends by the silent river, Its branches tracing secrets on the water’s glass. Once, a poet knelt there, his heart a-quiver, Penning verses on leaves that the wind would scatter. He spoke of moonlit nights and long-lost dreams, Of love that flickered like a dying flame. The tree remembered his words, or so it seems, And whispered them to travelers who came. Now children laugh beneath its shaded embrace, Unaware of the stories tangled in its grace. The river flows on, forgetting t...
