A lonely willow stands by the silent pond, Its branches tracing verses on the water’s glass. Once, a poet rested in its shade, Whispering dreams to the leaves that forever last. Moonlight weaves through its gentle sway, Each breeze carries a forgotten tale— Of lovers parting, of journeys afar, Of hopes as fragile as a morning gale. Now the tree remembers, though the poet is gone, And hums his words when the stars appear. If you listen closely at dusk’s soft hour, You might hear echoes, faint ...