A lonely willow bends by the silent stream, Its branches tracing patterns in the moon’s soft gleam. It whispers tales of lovers who once met below, Of promises exchanged as gentle winds would blow. One night a traveler paused beneath its shade, Hearing leaves murmur secrets long ago made. They spoke of joy and sorrow, hope and fear— A hundred years of stories gathered here. The wanderer smiled, adding his own dream, To the ancient tree’s enduring theme. Now moonlight still filters through the...
