A lonely willow stands by the silent pond, Its branches trace the moon’s pale light. A traveler pauses, gripped by sudden wonder, Hearing leaves murmur tales of ancient nights. Once, a poet carved verses on its bark, Words of love lost to autumn’s frost. Now the wind carries his lingering sigh— A secret kept where time is crossed. The pond reflects no face but the sky’s tears, Yet echoes of laughter linger near. Perhaps some joy remains in this quiet place, Waiting for hearts that still know ...
