Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine shares secret dreams. Its needles trace on mossy stone A tale of ages, softly sown. A traveler paused one autumn night, Heard boughs recount with gentle might Of scholars painting mountain skies, Of lovers’ vows and butterflies. The wind translates each rustling phrase Through generations’ misty haze - How joy and sorrow intertwine Like roots that through the granite twine. Now dawn arrives with gold and rose, The whispering momentarily go...
