A lone willow stands by the silent pond, Its branches tracing verses on the water’s glass. Once, a poet rested in its shade, Penning dreams of moons that never fade. Seasons turned—the ink dissolved like rain, Yet the tree remembers every whispered line. Now wind hums the forgotten ode, A story woven from light and shadow. Beneath the roots, old secrets sleep, Waiting for a traveler’s glance to wake. Not all tales need voice to be told; Some live in the stillness, brave and old.
