A lonely willow stands by the silent pond, Its branches tracing verses on the water’s glass. A traveler rests beneath its gentle shade, Dreaming of mountains he has yet to pass. Moonlight stitches silver through its leaves, Weaving tales of journeys long erased. The wind hums an ancient, wordless song— Of seasons loved, and seasons left to waste. Not all who wander need to be found; Some roots grow deeper in uncharted ground. The willow knows—in stillness, worlds are made, And every ending is...
