A tale unfolds by the silent stream, where an ancient willow’s branches gleam. It whispers secrets to passing winds, of forgotten loves and long-lost friends. Beneath its shade, a scholar once sat, composing verses with his worn-out hat. He wrote of moonlit nights and spring’s first bloom, while waiting for fortunes that never came. Now children laugh where his inkstone lay, chasing fireflies at close of day. The tree still sighs with leaves of green, guarding stories that might have been. Ti...
