The Whispering Pines
Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recalls a stream Where poets once with brush in hand Traced characters upon the sand. A hermit’s flute still haunts the hill, Its fading notes both strange and still, While mist-kissed bamboos bow and sway To secrets of the passing day. The four seasons dance in endless turn, As crimson leaves to earth return— Each fallen petal holds a tale Carried by the autumn gale. Now wisdom flows like mountain wine Through twisted roots and needled sp...
The Whispering Pines
Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recalls a stream Where poets once with brush in hand Traced characters upon the sand. A hermit’s flute still haunts the hill, Its fading notes both strange and still, While mist-kissed bamboos bow and sway To secrets of the passing day. The four seasons dance in endless turn, As crimson leaves to earth return— Each fallen petal holds a tale Carried by the autumn gale. Now wisdom flows like mountain wine Through twisted roots and needled sp...
