A lonely willow stands by the silent pond, Its branches tracing verses on the water’s glass. Once, a poet sighed beneath its shade, Leaving dreams tangled in the leaves. Seasons brushed past—spring blossoms fell, Autumn moons painted the surface with gold. Travelers paused, hearing faint whispers: ”Time flows, yet stories cling to roots.” Now children chase fireflies near its trunk, Unaware of the tales sleeping in the bark. The willow still writes with the wind, A timeless ode to loss and ge...