Nature's poetry written in green and gold.

Beneath the hush of silver sky,
where quiet waters drift and sigh,
the willows bend in whispered grace,
their golden threads a veiled embrace.

They do not weep as mortals do,
with bitter tears or sorrowed hue—
but let their branches softly fall,
like secrets shared with none at all.

Each trembling leaf, a fleeting breath,
a lullaby to time and death,
a gentle bow to passing days
that fade like mist in morning haze.

And in their shade, the weary find
a balm for heart, a rest for mind—
for willows teach, in silence deep,
how beauty lives in things that weep.