Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pinewood tells a dream. Its needles trace on forest floor What time and memory restore. A traveler paused at eventide Where shadow and the light divide. He heard the murmurs in the breeze— The secrets of centuries. Of lovers’ vows in spring’s embrace, Of warriors’ final resting place, Of seasons turning, slow and deep, Where roots their silent vigil keep. One broken branch, like outstretched hand, Spoke of the droughts that scarred the land. Ye...