A lonely willow stands by the lake, its branches tracing poems on the water’s surface. Each ripple tells a forgotten tale—of lovers who met beneath its shade, of travelers who rested against its trunk, of seasons that came and went like silent whispers. One autumn evening, a young poet sits there, pen in hand, trying to capture the tree’s essence. But the willow simply sighs, “Why write when you can listen?” The poet pauses, hearing the wind hum through leaves, the distant bell of a temple, t...
