A solitary willow stands by the silent pond, Its branches tracing verses on the water’s glass. Moonlight weaves through leaves like silver thread, Whispering tales of ages long since passed. A traveler rests beneath its gentle shade, Dreaming of mountains veiled in distant mist. The wind carries echoes of forgotten songs— Each ripple holds a memory the world has missed. No need for grandeur in this quiet sphere, Where roots drink time and shadows softly blend. The willow writes its poem witho...
