A lone willow stands by the silent pond, Its branches tracing verses on the water. Moonlight weaves through leaves like silver thread, Whispering tales of seasons long forgotten. A traveler pauses beneath its gentle sway, Hearing echoes of poets who drank wine here, Their laughter still tangled in the roots, Their ink stains lingering on the stones. The wind carries fragments of ancient songs— Of plum blossoms falling on untouched snow, Of mountains veiled in mist and mystery, Of farewells et...
