A lone willow bends by the silent river, Its branches tracing secrets on the water’s glass. Once, a poet rested under its shade, Drunk on moonlight and memories of spring. He left behind a verse unfinished— A single line about lost love and cicadas’ wings. Seasons passed; the ink faded from the bark, But the tree kept humming the melody at dusk. Now children chase fireflies through its leaves, Unaware of the sorrows swaying above. The willow still whispers to the current, Teaching the river h...
