A lone willow bends by the silent river, Its branches tracing tales of moonlit quiver. An old sage rests beneath its gentle shade, Recalling youth where dreams and promises made. He whispers to the wind, a secret kept, Of love that woke while all the village slept. A maiden’s laugh like bells across the stream, A fleeting vision, half-remembered dream. Years flowed like water, steadfast and deep, Yet memories awake when others sleep. The willow listens, leaves in soft reply— Some truths live ...
