A lonely willow bends by the silent stream, Its leaves tell tales in the moon’s gentle gleam. An old man sits beneath its sweeping shade, Recalling youth and choices he once made. He speaks of love that slipped right through his hand, Of distant dreams turned into grains of sand. Yet in his eyes a quiet peace still grows— For time teaches what the heart truly knows. The wind carries his story, soft and deep, As night embraces all, and secrets keep. Some say if you stand there at break of day,...
