A lone willow bends by the silent river, Its branches tracing verses on the water’s glass. Once, a poet sighed beneath its shade, Leaving dreams tangled in the leaves. Seasons turned—spring blossoms fell like scattered ink, Autumn moons painted the stream in silver. Travelers paused, hearing whispers in the wind: ”Time flows, but stories cling to roots deep and old.” Now only ripples remember the tale, Carrying fragments of rhyme toward the sea. Yet the willow still bows, keeper of secrets, W...
