A lone willow bends by the silent river, Its branches tracing secrets on the water’s skin. An old fisherman sits beneath its shade, Mending his net with hands like weathered leather. He recalls a promise made in spring— A whispered vow beneath this very tree. But seasons turned, and footsteps faded, Leaving only echoes in the breeze. Now autumn paints the leaves in gold, Each one a memory drifting slow. The river flows, relentless, cold, Carrying stories only willow knows. Yet in the twilight...
