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 etched in cicada summer nights.

Yet the willow remains, keeper of memories,

Bending but unbroken by passing years,

Teaching resilience in its graceful bow,

A living poem rooted in timeless earth.

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 etched in cicada summer nights.

Yet the willow remains, keeper of memories,

Bending but unbroken by passing years,

Teaching resilience in its graceful bow,

A living poem rooted in timeless earth.