A tale unfolds by the ancient stream, where silver willows bend and dream. Their leaves like brushes paint the sky, as gentle winds go whispering by. Beneath the boughs in dappled light, a boy once lingered through the night. He heard the tree in moonlit grace recount the stars’ celestial race. It spoke of journeys, love, and time, in measured, rhyming prose sublime. How seasons turn with patient hand across this ever-changing land. Now travelers pause where shadows play, to hear the willow’s...
