A lone willow bends by the silent river, Its branches tracing secrets on the water’s glass. An old fisherman sits with his silver net, Humming a tune from a forgotten past. Moonlight spills like liquid pearl through the leaves, Casting patterns on the mossy stones below. He remembers a promise made in spring, A voice softer than the evening breeze. Years have flowed like the endless stream, Yet the willow remains, keeper of dreams. Its whispers carry tales of joy and sorrow, Blending yesterda...
