A tale unfolds by the silver stream, where an ancient willow’s branches sway. It murmured secrets to the moonbeam, of lovers lost along the way. Their promises, like leaves, took flight, on winds that sang through autumn’s night. Yet roots held fast in earth so deep, guarding dreams the world forgot to keep. Now wanderers pause in twilight’s glow, to hear the whispers soft and low—of hope that springs from weathered bark, and lights a spark within the dark.