A lonely willow stands by the lake, Its branches sway with each breath wind takes. An old man sits beneath its shade each noon, Whispering secrets to the silent moon. He speaks of youth, of love long passed away, Of golden dreams that faded with the day. The willow listens, leaves all softly sighing, As sunlight through its gentle veil goes dying. One evening, as the stars began to gleam, The willow whispered back in moonlit dream: “Your sorrows, old friend, I have known them all— Now let the...
