Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recalls a stream Where poets once with brush in hand Would trace their dreams on shifting sand. A breeze now stirs its needled bough, Whispering of a forgotten vow— How lovers met by twilight’s fall Where nightingales made tender call. Their words like petals took to air, Yet rooted in the earth with care, Grew into tales that still remain In every drop of summer rain. So listen when the old trees sigh— They hold more truths than you or I,...
