A lone willow bends by the silent river,

Its branches tracing secrets on the water’s skin.

Once, a poet rested under its shade,

Dreaming of moons that never waned.

He left a verse carved in the ancient bark—

”Time flows where roots drink deep.”

Now the words stretch with the growing tree,

Half-lost, half-eternal.

Travelers pause to touch the weathered lines,

Whispering their own stories to the wind.

The willow listens, always listening,

Gathering tales in its rustling leaves.

Seasons turn; the river never stills.

Yet something of that poet lingers here—

A faint echo in the greenish light,

A dream tangled in the roots below.

A lone willow bends by the silent river,

Its branches tracing secrets on the water’s skin.

Once, a poet rested under its shade,

Dreaming of moons that never waned.

He left a verse carved in the ancient bark—

”Time flows where roots drink deep.”

Now the words stretch with the growing tree,

Half-lost, half-eternal.

Travelers pause to touch the weathered lines,

Whispering their own stories to the wind.

The willow listens, always listening,

Gathering tales in its rustling leaves.

Seasons turn; the river never stills.

Yet something of that poet lingers here—

A faint echo in the greenish light,

A dream tangled in the roots below.