A lonely willow stands by the lake, Its branches trembling with each breath they take. A traveler rests beneath its shade, Recalling choices fortune made. He speaks of roads he left behind, Of broken dreams and peace of mind. The tree just listens, wise and deep, While secrets in its leaves it keeps. A breeze arrives—a soft reply: “Even the strongest winds must die. What matters isn’t where you’ve gone, But how you rose at every dawn.” The man walks on with lighter soul— The willow’s words ha...
