A lonely willow stands by the silent pond, Its branches tracing verses on the moon. Once, a poet left his inkstone here, Spilling starlight into the water’s tune. Now the wind recites his forgotten lines— Each ripple holds a character afloat. Travelers pause, hearing syllables fall, Catching echoes of an ancient throat. No one knows the poem’s end, yet the tree Keeps humming rhymes in shades of jade and grey, Weaving time with leaves that never cease To write the sky’s unending, wordless lay.

A lonely willow stands by the silent pond, Its branches tracing verses on the moon. Once, a poet left his inkstone here, Spilling starlight into the water’s tune. Now the wind recites his forgotten lines— Each ripple holds a character afloat. Travelers pause, hearing syllables fall, Catching echoes of an ancient throat. No one knows the poem’s end, yet the tree Keeps humming rhymes in shades of jade and grey, Weaving time with leaves that never cease To write the sky’s unending, wordless lay.