A lone willow bends by the silent river,

Its branches tracing secrets on the water’s glass.

Once, a poet knelt here, heart all a-quiver,

Penning verses on time that too soon would pass.

He spoke of moonlit nights and autumn’s gold,

Of love found fragile, like a butterfly’s wing.

The ink flowed dark, a story to be told,

As crickets paused their summer songs to sing.

Now years have gone; the scrolls are dust and air,

But the tree remembers every word he gave.

When wind blows through, it whispers fragments there—

A bittersweet refrain that won’t be brave.

Yet travelers pause, feeling a haunting grace,

As leaves brush softly against a timeless place.

A lone willow bends by the silent river,

Its branches tracing secrets on the water’s glass.

Once, a poet knelt here, heart all a-quiver,

Penning verses on time that too soon would pass.

He spoke of moonlit nights and autumn’s gold,

Of love found fragile, like a butterfly’s wing.

The ink flowed dark, a story to be told,

As crickets paused their summer songs to sing.

Now years have gone; the scrolls are dust and air,

But the tree remembers every word he gave.

When wind blows through, it whispers fragments there—

A bittersweet refrain that won’t be brave.

Yet travelers pause, feeling a haunting grace,

As leaves brush softly against a timeless place.