A lone willow bends by the silent river, Its branches tracing secrets on the water’s skin. An old fisherman sits with his forgotten dreams, Mending nets while the moon begins to thin. He recalls a promise made in spring’s embrace, When blossoms fell like snow upon the shore. Now autumn whispers through the trembling leaves, And time’s slow current asks for nothing more. Yet in the ripple where two worlds collide, A silver fish leaps—brief, alive, and bright— A fleeting verse in nature’s endle...
