A lonely willow bends by the silent stream, Its branches tracing patterns in a dream. An old man sits beneath its gentle shade, Recalling promises that time has made. He whispers to the leaves of days long past, Of friendships forged that were too frail to last. The wind carries his words to distant lands, Across the seas and over golden sands. Yet in the rustling leaves, a truth takes form— That even solitude can feel warm. For memories, like roots, run deep and strong, And in his heart, the...
